By Michael Thomas-Knight
There are creatures that walk amongst us, parading as humans in unnatural parody – skin stretched to the limits of physics until a glossy sheen pervades – lips bulbous and swollen, a mockery of youth.
Large honey-hive breasts, devoid of natural purpose, stand firm in their death – inanimate, plastic, pretense. Scarred and hardened tissues, hidden beneath hairlines and in the folds of the body, remain unseen from the prying eyes of the camera. Eyes that don’t blink, too wide, like fright’s graven image, engage their creepy stare, as hair – color washed away by chemical poisons – sits perfectly arranged, atop their empty heads.
False youth in a zombie parade, a society of Frankenstein brides, marching to the beat of easy money on reality TV. Pop dolls, everywhere I look, drained of life and soul but still they walk, an Arian race of dead skin and plastic replacement parts, false beauty to fill their voided hearts.