Aching Glamour

"Blood runs through your veins, that's where our similarity ends." -  Editors, "Blood"

"Don't ask us to attend 'cos we're not all there; oh don't pretend 'cos I don't care" - The Sex Pistols, "Pretty Vacant"  
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I don't want to be another clone of blonde and pill-perfect

Anorexiqueens frozen in their stained-glass slaughter-houses,

Crop their wings and watch them crawl the walls blindly, electroshock spiders caught in

Overdrive.

 

 

Unplug their turn-ons and watch them fizzle out, the most elegant

Candles in a storm of diamonds; how does it feel when

Your lifeblood attacks?

 

 

It makes me cry when these magazine-page ravens attack with

Flashing claws and hatefully fragile wings alight with glowing masks of

Barbie-doll idols who ache inside with a million paper-cuts, consumed

By their own emptiness.