The Art Of Shaving

Transparent droplets of water rolled down my cheek,
crusty white liquid was produced in bountiful spray,
piercing tunes blasted from sleek sound systems,
fountains of water oozed from the shower at electric speeds,
hot geyser lights burned incessantly,
coats of wall plaster glistened in dull radiance,
tablets of green soap lay bare on the mantelpiece,
rich spun towels hung from articulately curved hooks,
tons of washing powder evacuated a cluster of bacteria,
as i stared into the crystal mirror,
suspended a few feet below the ceiling weaved with corrugations.

i filled a large tumbler with mineral water,
dissolved filaments of chili for pungent perfume,
poured frosty denim foam wildly compressing the nozzle pipe,
stirred the mixture with round sticks of silver,
caressed hard stalks of my hair,
with pea sized amounts of yellow cream,
scraped untidy mass of overgrown stubble,
with deft strokes of twin platinum blades,
splashed my face clean with handfuls of ice water,
slaughtered remnant traces of untrimmed hair,
with steady applications of blow dryer gun,
breathed a sigh of relief at last,
sprinkling my immaculately shaven flesh,
with revitalizing wisps of the cologne aftershave.

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