Pop Goes the Ego
She was the mistress of sexual spectacle.
She only wanted to play a respectable
Part in the pantheon of the perfectible
Idols of glamour and show.
Molting her vestments, she enters the manic scene
Chanting her mantras from dramas and magazines,
Dancing with cameras and light in a frantic dream,
Chasing down fame’s flitting glow.
Buoyed by worship, she reaches her pinnacle,
Making her prey to the hostile and cynical.
Parasite acolytes seal her within a cool
Chrysalis, capturing her form.
Now her friends gaze on her, never to talk or stay.
Lovers turned liars by avarice walk away
Leaving her: only a little girl locked away
Far from all softness and warmth.
High on her mount she looks ever more fearfully
Out from behind a façade crafted carefully,
Hiding all sutures lest they start to tear, fully
Severing prosthetic appeal.
Knowing she’s mortal, she clutches her offerings,
Using diversions and opiates to mend her seams,
Salving her doom with a mordant of self-extreme,
Never again to be real.