Muse (poem)

There are viewers and models less concerned with the art that tells a story
in pictures
for that I’m sorry,
bodies marked by scars and tattoos from the days of their youth,
bumps, bruises of their truth,
twisted on mother earth,
ground in soil,
they toil
in the sea of their birth,

rules cast in fisher’s nets to breed or to consume.
Life’s delicious in whatever ways they resume –
the whole of beauty cobbles together a set of shapes and colors,
almond eyes, skin brown, pale and yellow.
Hello?
Lives balanced on scales like the dissonant phrases and schemes of a poem,
in a thousand words,
the rhyme of our time,
a blended song,
sing along,
wide-spaced eyes,
lithe frames,
baby feet,
physical features that airy feelings do greet,
in the forms and works of the super models the artist calls “cuties.”

The viewer sees tortured twisted poses like Picasso’s mind,
discovering how beauty doth captivate and bind,
grimaces crack haunting gazes,
the old ideas,
flips of hair,
the splay of limbs on a stair,
a glossy display on magazine pages, oh, the outrages,
framing an expression of “I don’t care.”
Hence, resting bitch face, leather and lace.

An artist’s passion razes traditions,
Disturbing the onslaught of greedy eyes, which graze on social media posts,
disgusted models admired, better than being fired,
while hosts pocket the most,
Subjects devoid of all-natural flaws,
immortalized in false portraits sustaining a perfection most fleeting,
reflecting on an age that was the soul’s domain,
Paradise lost was the industry’s cost,
you know…
that old, old refrain,
the whole of beauty,
revived,
recast,
recycled,
retired.

If you don’t like it,
you can turn the page.