Plastic SocietyA Poem by Nik DiCarlo If you don't take a giant breath after reading this then I haven't done my job. The style was written to mirror Slyvia Plath's "Daddy." Zombies I see, zombies I see Infected, a disease In which effects all that wear human skin. Flesh and blood / nip and tuck. Wrinkle fearing, begging please.
Doll faces with eyes that are stuck. Porcelain identity with Mascara black, lips swollen red A Morticians work of art. Where reality is far from real.
Injected with Botox and psychosis, Their cheeks leak debris From a horrible childhood mind. Such a sad memory, Poor, poor sweetie.
It’s the way of the rich with the poorest of souls, Smacked and hit by the ugly stick. Ouch, ouch, ouch, “Beauty is pain, that’s for certain,” Oh ignorant android.
Perfection is unattainable indeed. Put yourself out of misery With a bullet, or bull dozer, And pick the splinters from your atrophy.
Scratching deep with painted fingernails Itch, itch, itch, itch, One can barely sleep. Screaming loud obscenities When all awhile just dreaming.
Alarm clock, alarm clock Making a mind go crazy, Like Schizophrenia, Dementia, Anorexia. They’ve covered all their acne, But beneath the eyes is baggy.
The fear of age, the love of cosmetics, Spinning 180 degrees. Such hideous nature, their karma’s due: Stitches unglue, stitches unglue, A sowed heart will never break free.
When greed became the enemy The President’s such precious green, And their smooth, soft hands And their neighborhood: Shi Shi. Manichean, Manichean, don’t breathe.
Not a cross but a needle Etched deep underneath and between. No birth defect can intervene. The foot in the mouth, the fake Fake life of a fake city.
Where lights twinkle and dance over moons A bow to a partner - a curtsey - Adieu. A waltz in their step instead of their life. But no less people for that, no not Any less the sickness ceased.
The tension’s always hot and muggy with The drunken crotch-shot druggy Who searches for a cure when Sick, sick, sick and dizzy. Refuge, not even in therapy.
They’ve relinquished all their flaws. Anesthesia feeling drowsy. Like a dog they bit their fleas, Fell to skinned knees and begged “help me please!” Walk now gorgeous, sashay shanté.
Material love is filthy. Black as soot dreary, dreary. Thinking they are so sexy. Ammonia killed the brain, And now their thoughts: a chimney.
If it’s killed one thing, it’s killed three: To the grave a body, mind, and money. Medicine cannot cure death. Eternity, you missed out. Beauty Queen, time to return your crown.
There are bugs in their chiseled cheeks, And dirt covering their Versace. They dug up the graves and built a center for Plastic
Surgery. Chuckle and laugh at the irony. Statue, Statue, Rigor Mortis, so unpretty.
© Nicole DiCarlo 2007-2014. Any unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Nicole DiCarlo [NikDiCarlo] as the author with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. © 2015 Nik DiCarloFeatured Review
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6 Reviews  Last Updated on September 9, 2015 Tags: society, plastic surgery, pop culture, infection, dark, gothic, hollywood, botox Author
Nik DiCarloMingo Junction, OHAboutThe common main themes of my writing style tend to be dark, gothic and macabre, focusing on the lives and tales of literary and cryptic legends, flaws in humanity, domestic violence, pregnancy/birth/m.. more..Writing
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