As part of my poetry homework, I was supposed to come up with a ‘thing’ poem. I experimented on many things, and this lipstick poem is one, which came to me in the middle of Xinyao concert – weird. It took a turn on its own and got deeply influenced by Lysistrata, a play I wrote my critical essay on.
He clasps my lipstick in both hands,
encases it between putrid palms in prayer.
After a moment of hesitation,
he releases it onto two calloused fingers
and pulls off its plastic cap.
Gently he twists the slim ebony pipette
to raise the cake of crimson erection.
He brings forth the lipstick
towards a five-o’clock shadowy pout.
The lipstick glides across rough parched lips,
paints them a pasty red,
to match the rogue cheeks and purplish lids.
He hears my pleading whisper,
‘what are you doing with my lipstick?’
The lipstick, now freed to its full glory,
no longer imprisoned by its tube.
He scrawls across the mirror in red
and breaks the phallic cake.