The sound of segregated silence feels
Its way near the suffering surface again – these appetite-filled people
Have been wistfully whispering, to one atop another
A “who’s-who” cocktail-fingered slew
Of filth and folded napkin soldiers
Only carrying with them inhumane activism this time
A sellout sleaze and he gets himself to distantly meeting – the leftovers, plagiarised, unpublished poets
The most unholy of back-to-front stories, in this whole wide-eyed world of money-hungry ours
The exact same uncomfortable (uncontrollable) one’s
Who slaughter their very own bare-naked, sweet-sixteen souls
One wineglass-captured syllable per painstaking time – he took her promised avenue and called it his panning labyrinth
Heavily insistent upon this vitriol thing, above all other ventures untrained
She hates, hates, motherfuckin’ hates it the most… 
So soon as whenever he gets to letting himself call her
By no other name, but for a sexually ambivalent creature of blonde-bombshell sorts when placed disgustingly, disgruntingly against
The shape of his misrepresenting waters – Call him by his holy grail name and we will kill Harvey Weinstein
With a kind of unkindly kindness, which ‘lies’ lovably behind, a million other Hollywood actresses with their sullen demise
About to unfold and unfurl to reach and touch the thirsty surface – her good name shall shine fondly, unforgivingly, forever