The varnished teenage deigan masks,
though lacking an artisan’s touch,
fight for the leading role on the main stage
of their little drama—a bus stop—only to become a trophy
in a desperate act of impersonating adults.
Call me a snob, but I simply can’t stand the aesthetic,
or rather the lack thereof. Maybe if it were the return of seventies glam,
but all I see are badly applied thick layers of makeup,
insanely long, tacky eyelashes, and exclamations
steamed in unfamiliar perfumed fumes.
Yet I remember the scent.
hidden pilcrow 