"Blood runs through your veins, that's where our similarity ends." - Editors, "Blood"
"Don't ask us to attend 'cos we're not all there; oh don't pretend 'cos I don't care" - The Sex Pistols, "Pretty Vacant"
I don't want to be another clone of blonde and pill-perfect
Anorexiqueens frozen in their stained-glass slaughter-houses,
Crop their wings and watch them crawl the walls blindly, electroshock spiders caught in
Unplug their turn-ons and watch them fizzle out, the most elegant
Candles in a storm of diamonds; how does it feel when
Your lifeblood attacks?
It makes me cry when these magazine-page ravens attack with
Flashing claws and hatefully fragile wings alight with glowing masks of
Barbie-doll idols who ache inside with a million paper-cuts, consumed
By their own emptiness.