Mascara Dynasty
Nicole Steinberg

Ten turncoats corner me with machete
acrylics, hissing on their pedestals, rising

from the dirt. I should have strived for
a more boring life. I’m a Russian princess

slash pop star running around a snowy town
square in high heels and no pants. This

is the look I’m going for. It’s a good look.
I’m having a lot of meaningless sex

in meaningful places, enjoying the exquisite
rinds of insignificant men. Pungent with woe,

they pretend not to stare at my thighs. The sun turns
its bitch-face to my subjects and their construction

paper lives, sets a bunch of shit ablaze.
The way people go nuts when you leave them

in the heat, all the scotch tape flying loose.
From every loudspeaker an anthem rings; black

hearts and ankles break to the beat. I kiss
every forehead I see, my lips creating craters.


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