I call her Chanel -
because she covers up the stench of her rotting morality
with that iconic perfume of beauty,
Her internal ethnicity is of wrinkles, and  rough skin,
and canines hard like diamonds -
ones that tear up the futures of her stargazers
with ****** nips and snippets behind their backs,
Like truths written on paper that she hates to read -
she tears them up into shreds so miniscule
they could never be stitched back together,
Then she smiles as she strides past
with that aroma wafting from her
in agonizing waves like an ocean of failure
pelting her hypnotized admirers from miles away,
Though she’s miamed their images with rumours
and amputated their hopes with lies
she is to them this kind of idol
set up on a pedestal of severed limbs painted gold,
They see a saviour while I see a snake  
cloaked in an aura of No 1