Fag in her Face [poem]

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Such pure beauty (such inadequacy in that word!)
to sum up what I so surprisely saw.
It seemed her facial harmony defied with glee
the penchant for all visages to hold at least one flaw.
Such luminosity in what I dreamful heard
fall from her strangely thralling lips.
A voice and forehead (gentle frown) to match;
an hourglass shape which, not unlike a cello,
always brings the eyes back to her fecund hips.
What art was brushed in swirly oils!
Impressionistic passion boils on canvas
stretched on koa or acacia frame.
Luxury here was at its best — extravagance of nature
clicks its subtle fingers to the same beat
as the one which hammers in my breast.

Those were my feelings…
till she stuffed that fag into her face.
Upon which all my thoughts of beauty
disappeared without a trace.
Might just as well have
— thrown some trash into the sea
— slashed a Rembrandt in the Rijksmuseum gallery
— made some tacky observation to the Queen
— put an incline on a virgin bowling green
— wiped an arse with manuscript from sonnet-works of old
— served some chips in a Playboy centrefold
— blown some raspberries (reverse-kisses) under mistletoe
— thrown some black paint on a crimson sunset-glow
— trampled cruelly on a flower with spite
— sought divorce with relish on a wedding night
— screamed blue murder non-stop in a library full of swots
— drawn the Mona Lisa with her smile swathed in pus-filled spots

Why, I ask, would someone want to scar the earth —
deliberately abort a wanted birth?
What twisted mind would desecrate its sacred space —
draw poison wilfully and wantonly into and through
a warmoist place designed for kisses
locking lips and other nameless acts
in endless love embrace?

Hoodwinked by a corporate empire based on greed —
puppets on their strings, they on our weaknesses insanely feed.
How much more beauty would there be unsullied on this sphere
if from self-hate and ignorance we kept our bodies clear?

© Alan Morrison, 2015

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