Oblivia 

 

You look at me through your new found fashionista,

Tell me that I am boring,

I understand,

Why would you speak of the

Dull state of today?

Stars, planets, climates, people, love,

 

You perspire to the empty beat of a London club,

Held together with Hennes zip,

Peer through designer lenses,

Moulded to diamond encrusted frames,

 

Colourful rims circle smothering shadows,

Detract from caked-on concealer,

Jet Black mascara melts with your coke sweat,

Your eyes foregrounded, yet invisible, blind.

 

Mirrors, make-up and your mother’s 60’s Polaroid,

Poised on breast ready to pounce,

On posing crowds, concrete smiles,

This is your sight for tonight.

 

Tomorrow’s social network voyeur,

Blind to any miracle,

And you tell me that I am boring,

 

Across the seas donation boxes are arriving,

Crowds gather, scramble,

Stoop for vision,

Ferocious sun eats into necks, backs,

Feasting daily on unprotected retinae,

Life melts like mascara in the heat.

 

A small scribble on worn, shipped cardboard,

‘Spectacles-Bolivia’

There are no mirrors needed for this fitting.

In the bewilderment, a chance meeting,

Ms Morales finds her miracle,

She screams a smile as she catches glimpse of her daughter,

Who finally stays still and as one.

More beautiful than she could ever, ever have imagined,

Teardrops steam up alien lenses.

A gift more precious than London itself,

 

A perfect Polaroid moment.

 

Blurred vision rests elsewhere,

Overseas, where they dance oblivias,

Behind three thousand pounds worth of vanity.