They're everywhere.
Girls on television with Hepburn bodies to fit into the margins of magazines, page 3.
Miasmic necks like giraffes to chase scenes as if they're paparazzi with their wine
and ritzy bones.

Suffocated in lip fillers,
It's a surprise no one has burst their silicone bodies,
zeppelins pop, emits poses for a new slattern orbit.

They're articulate;
put thought into every word,
sentences like lines of crystal virtue on lavish vinyls,
another dumb blonde for the
headlines - head space of naive youth.

Hand jobs to antagonise,
i agonise over crimson nails
liberating ***** with cuts of scarlet joy in rapture -
welcome to our modern culture.

They're infatuated with;
lucent screens set eyes aglow
to highlighted cheeks disguised as moons, an unearthly cult called, "mystic aliens of media control".

No. romance is dead,
it only exists in movies that star
******* Angelina Jolie.
Being adored is prone to vanity;
role models get to giggle,
play chaste to be bijou in the arms of Zeus,
while i act as chimera.