To not only be beautiful but to change faces.
To let the metaphysics of emotion become our style.
“Don’t be superficial” the angel says
but the Devil asks a more pertinent question:
Why can’t I recreate my expression to my desire?
Whether it is the stride of my sex or the knuckles of a clenched fist.
The eyes have power.
Do we submit ourselves to nature for a truth that has no feeling?
Is there falseness in a shaved head, shaved bone, a tattooed smile
False locks and false breast?
Let these things be tender gestures.
A remembrance of the rejected embrace.
The idolatry of parties that we could not start,
leaving us with enough alcohol and matches for a Molotov.
It is only the social ego that suffers from the idea of being phony
but the soul rejoices at the reclamation of the flesh.
No one will follow our blush and eyeliner to hell.
If the decorated flesh is so repugnant
The song would not be about her sweet face and lush body.
It would be a song of war.