First, cover what’s a must;
dark circles
and red spots,
and then, pores
should be diminished
to the smallest acres
of skin flecks, and then—
then, skin should glow
and be pink—
some fake health
on the surface of the surface.
Spread foundation
even and equal
everywhere—
regardless of high and low,
cheek or chin. Forehead
must come close
to a pure whiteness
of dignity—
like the residuum
of white magnolias.
Where you shrewdly draw
around eyes with dark liner,
they need to attract the light
not arriving from him. Maybe a she
will grant the awaited compliment.
Shades of blue
or green
may mostly mingle
over eyelids—
lips only rarely.
Eyes can’t see
in these colors
but serve in such context
or in a mirror, maybe.
Brows are allowed
to be brandished
and to be there
as their own,
as they bear the confidence
a heart lacks—
in patterns of determinism—
and ponders
in anger or anguish.
Lips cannot be bare—
at least a tint of nude,
hidden they need to be
even when they surmount
in crimson.
But doubtless you must conceal them,
as afraid they are and bitter
against our indifference
to the bow they clasp
and the arrow they aim.
The aim of this art;
to show or to hide—
one can’t decide.
The decided sorrow
or the lost happy
surfacing through the sins
that skins undertake.
The naked skin will show
at midnight,
as the dark
reveals the truth,
always—
the maxim of being a human
who is molded and carved
and embodied and refutes
the order to be to.
The question is there
with its answer,
the fact with its lie,
her with that other her,
and him
pushed elsewhere
as distant as possible
from the affections
not yet glorified
within the lands
of the body.
They cover each other;
face and makeup,
essence and its structure—
one against the other
or, ever, for.