I wrote this back in February. I read it once at the Cantab and didn't get that great a reaction, but I still kind of like it.
I want, like Britney Spears, to shave my head.
We will shear our scalps –
shed this burden of beauty
and form an army of 25 year old girls
screaming under eyes of the world
we will not take this anymore.
Think – with a flick of the wrist
we can tear out of the pictures –
we can wear boots, tattoos,
fly at those who seek
to flatten us, view us as crystal and lace –
Fuck you, I wear spikes and brass knuckles.
I’ll stamp into the pavement your flesh
and your camera if you dare pain my portrait
in any color but pure rage red.
I want to hear “sir” when I enter the room.
I want you to hang on every word that drops
from my lips even if they’re painted pink.
Hand me the clippers, I wish to be shorn.
My hair is too brittle to care for.
Fuck the petals, give me the thorns.
I’m too tired now to be careful.
Fuck the romance, give me the porn,
that hot wet vibration invading.
Fuck the shelter, give me the storm.
I’ve no beauty left that’s worth saving.
I remember, fifteen
and the world changed.
I held on futilely to the music of my childhood when the bubblegum gloss overcame and banished the gut-wrenching shrieks and drumbeats and the blessed atonal syncopated angst to my headphones and shameful bedroom.
When in the street again we see
skinny girls’ virginity
sold as flesh filets of meat
to Rolling Stone and MTV.
And the flash came –
the strobe-light flare
of Hollywood blonde
and limousine glare
that came like an A-bomb
in the cottonmouth pall
of tragic September,
that desolate fall.
Yes, the cameras rose up
with the beats and the bass
and the flash of the lights
and the limousine chase
and the white city girls
and the voyeur disgrace
of each and every one of you
And that opiate, rich
in its maddening rush
bubbled and cooked
and colored our lust.
Oh your sparkling glamour
invading my brain!
It’s drawn up my nose
and into my veins
straight to my heart
and there’s no way to block it.
I’m addicted to you,
don’t you know that you’re toxic?
And the record of poisons
I’ve drawn from the air
is kept in cross-section
in each shaft of hair.
So lather my scalp and hand me the shears.
I want to be free of the past seven years.
Just shave my head bald, like whatshername Spears
and goddamn the fear.
Goddamn the fear.