First, prep with moisturizer.
Humidity and lotion blend,
Make a base for your case,
A tenuous foundation for
Your evening’s battleship.
Next, slap on the goop,
Three shades pinker than
Your steadfast brown,
So your neck and face look like
Distant cousins, four times removed.
Darken the brow, line it with dots of color,
Interchangeable, like men & destiny, then
Brush on a violent fuchsia, as vivid as your
Dreams, your natural blush buried deep within,
Like practice for latent desires.
Line your mouth, the boundaries of
Your speech, carefully crafted in
Lurid tones, soon to seep away.
Don’t stretch its corners, for cracks will
Show, and it is too soon for that: yet.
Trace the hoods of your
Eyes, lowered in compliance,
Unfilled with dreams, you just want your
Liner to dry. Sweep on mascara, brush-on dark pleasure,
Gaze wide and unseeing at the throngs that come to view.
Garish and ghastly, you’re the pink-faced bride,
Another for a day, admired in hi-definition avatar,
Brightness and color at max. When the war paint is off,
You’ll revert to someone you know, and I’ll rejoice that
Wedding days are rather few in a lifetime.
Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas 
Vox populi