Swan Makeup (Written Version)

*To hear the recorded version, listen for me on the Surreal Grotesque Podcast, Episode 15! https://www.spreaker.com/page#!/user/aliensoul77/surreal_grotesque_episode_15?code=AQDFGXDvL6WmGz_HTQM75KXg_HxV_vE9yaKBbngJmJYIM_7zWKlp5W3AYJ76vZahWXtGAg6tMn9gM4W2lCK6V6ov6ooyy5R-LHh6RfREDkSXHR-1uLp5Uy0jhQN7wUuhrdZXJRl_yklJHIZrROyzDm_8xxiMwSW7PxX3OQcv84naE7jaiOb6nDq0qB4zvjFDHSipLjFE4-q884loKSGM84gT

 

Death smelt of feathers and beauty,

gave odor to the rocks and waters–

blurred copious sands,

until the fish withered.

 

The black swans in their lace collars and makeup,

fringed once–

dirtied once,

in the river dined on blood.

 

Sticks of poisonwood rattled broken bone subjects,

and tickle by tease–

each swan feather and figure,

peaked and sunk into the stream.

 

Now bald, without lipstick messes to trickle and measure,

with only their shadows looking lovely as ever–

the black swans float, seared it seems,

down the back waters–

through the backwash of throat and gargle,

haunted by meticulous makeup–

the scent of blood and perfume,

as they choke on river’s edge–

peel back their roast of the featherless,

and shine of nothingness upon the rocks–

a tepid tease of tongue and taste,

as they fall away.