Mirror, Mirror (#1): Lunching Lady
A poetic character portrait from a distillation of informal observation.
It’s time for some original poetry, which I strive to generate at least once a month, and which will always be free to my wonderful subscribers and ever curious visitors.
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I recently joined a local gym and feel much better for the experience, both physically and mentally. To be recommended.
My eyes remain closed most of the time I’m exercising , as it’s easier to reformulate my novel’s prose without distractions. But I do open them occasionally, because it’s easier to write about what you see, or casually assume, or invent. I prefer not to face the mirror myself – you never know who might be watching…
Below is my first character portrait from a distillation of such informal observations.
To sweat is not a social sin. Put your makeup in the bin. Your pores need to feel the air that you breathe. Let your metabolism invoke other tortured ways to poke movement from false-toned limbs. As hymns to the body beautiful feed your muscle hustle, why hide those salty drops of effort hitting yoga tempered floors? Unglue those eyelashes yoked to the revolving door of beauty filtered by fake. You let admiring men overtly acknowledge your grace, your face, the space you must create between dumb bells of pneumatic falseness and over-inflated balls. Pump to a spinner’s beat, but trowelled cracks of an ego’s insecurity can’t be fixed with any expensive aesthetic, the injected pleasure or over-ripened lips. So reap your just rewards, receiving praises from gazes, which must never see the sweat you’ll forever claim to effortlessly bleed, the mirage you must paint to be mistakenly believed.