Glistening acrylics, dripping poison onto the Mac,
The page. Blood red corruption, concealed
By the smoke of the menthol cigarette.
Ducking and diving and turning the truth as black as
The new grey. It doesn’t suit, but you still buy it.
Fucking the editor to glaze over the mistakes.
Shagging for gossip, screwing you over.
Sex sells. No publicity is bad publicity.
Scarlet fingers scratching down your back.
Its exciting, a turn on. Flipping over the pages,
Not so glamorous, there in the fleshy print.
Sensation, the heartbeat of the rustling hustle
Bustle of everyday. Gossip, grande skinny late
In the morning, pinot grigio before bed.
Methodical tap tap of stiletto heels,
Stepping on the faces of the front page.
Love, love, love your poetry. Bear in mind the magnitude of this from the person who took year 1 Poetry at uni and then never touched a poetry module again in the three years. I hate stuffy or overly 'modern' poetry, but yours is evocative, sharp, visual and hard-hitting as well as romantic at times.
ReplyDeleteI hope this last one is in reference to scandalous weeklies as opposed to ELLEgirls :P But you do have a very strong point either way. I feel like part of the corrupt media now! I'm The Man! Oh dear xx