There burns within our heads
An undying fire. We are
Our own God, sprung from holy beds,
It is ourselves we admire.
To fuel it, we send Holly
Deep into the Wood,
Only to find she fell into the flames;
Another addiction we never understood.
She whispered shallow promises, wrapped in famous names,
And sung plastic praises tainted by flash-bulbed rain.
Narcissus was test-shot
And on-screen Judas-kissed,
While Holly drank Marilyn’s champagne
With Machiavelli’s Prince.
Another rose whose smell we missed.
Forever, we’ll be burdened
By the pills on the hill.
Our dance is celluloid
And thirty-five millimetred to kill.