Beauty is the ‘art of self’
you look painfully unnatural,
pretty isn’t perfect,
perfect isn’t pretty
true beauty needs no cheap disguise,
wipe the mascara from your eyes
learn to master the ‘art of self’,
youth can’t be purchased off the shelf,
bypass applying cosmetic distraction,
attraction can’t take place
through a painted face,
beauty can wilt
when internal balance tilts,
except your decay,
a change is underway,
you can’t turn back the clock
with the abuse of Botox,
or enhance your
sultry
seduction
with a cheek enhancement
or liposuction,
real strength sleeps within
your wreckage,
you are beautiful
never forget it,
your seasoned skin
and, ‘those same kind eyes’
is where your true beauty lies,
beauty is the ‘art of self’
it belongs to you, no one else
My Final Night
here on my final night
my one last curtain call,
I’ve come to the end of life
I hope I taught you well,
please don’t mourn for me,
I survived, I saw it through,
all I ever was beats
deep in the heart of you,
I never was a religious man
I can see a light so bright,
I can hear your mother calling me
dressed in angel white,
she’s finally in my arms again
her beauty still unchanged,
our bodies may turn to dust
but our spirits stay the same
Cut The Cord
an uncertain direction,
self-preservation,
subtracting your mind
through 5G connection,
to conquer a life, digitised
we must cut the cord
to rationalise,
we relocate our lives
to the collective hard drive
time and time again,
editing the truth
in the hope
that it will trend,
we’re imperfect beauty,
idiosyncratic,
we must cut the cord
to break the habit
this technology is fallacy,
symptomatic
of a collective need
to feel connected,
never to be rejected,
your constant hunger
for a ‘digital feed’
is so anticlimactic,
we must cut the cord
to rationalise,
we relocate our lives
to the collective hard drive,
time and time again,
cut
the
cord
Clockwork Toy
my wrists twist ninety degrees,
effortlessly on a natural bearing
I’m usually positioned on a miniature chair,
from the corner of the room staring,
there’s a world beyond the window,
it’s something I’ll never know
I’m calling for you to let me go,
no longer am I the fad or favourite
of what parents see wise,
I’ll have you know I was in fashion
long before you were alive,
coming a close second to the ‘chattering teeth',
my tin exterior hides
a fragile heart beneath,
ticking, beating and repeating
each time you wind me up
my mechanics are far to intricate
to be produced in a mindless factory,
I thought my days were numbered
come the alkaline battery,
I have no hardware or USB,
no A.I. intelligence, you can’t delete me,
over time, it appears I’ve been relegated,
I suppose some might accuse
this broken toy jaded,
I bare the odd bruise,
my colour might be faded,
but I still see myself as a toy for all ages,
despite my rusty springs
I house no dial or gauges,
I require no manual with
a thousand pointless pages
you can confide in me and I’ll listen,
I’ll help you to handle your own decisions,
until that fateful day
when you condemn me gone,
I guess nothing ‘old’ in this new age
ever lasts that long,
and with this comes the journey,
the part I hate the most,
I’m tossed away like junk,
thrown from pillar to post,
it’s as if I can hear my tin heart crumble
as you sentence me to the ‘death row’ jumble,
I am a clockwork toy, a broken boy,
a resemblance of youth
that adolescence forgot,
forever resigned to the bargain bin
in your local charity shop,
tick toc, tic toc, tic toc
hype
the depth within your heart
is removed and replaced
with a shallow form or art
that no longer relates
to the reasons why you chose
to try to create in the first place,
you can’t wipe the slate clean
once you’ve sold yourself to the dream,
your mind is no longer your own,
you’ll be squeezed
and squished like plasticine,
poked and prodded
then placed in a box,
it’s one hell of a ride
until the hype wears off
and the sales start to drop
