Ten million wrought-iron women
march in Sephora and gold
lugging their wheeled makeup-carriages
Can’t run. Heels.
Can’t fight. Nails.
Thousands in the can
for all the chemicals they’re worth
and still not worth
And these are not the giant metallic idols
casting shadows over the land-
these are the cacophony sisters,
common as sand and just as brief,
born of insanity,
raised with just one hope:
to peal and rattle and sound.
They’re following the scent of roasting flesh,
they chat amongst themselves of artificial glory,
and the din of vanity is growing too much
for rational minds to bear.
Who could halt these daughters of discord,
who could stop their shrieking laughter in the streets?
Who with unwaxed eyebrows could get in a single word
to stifle the clamor of their wailing and empty decrees-
who could speak the truth to drones who will not hear it
over the roar they’re creating to silence themselves?