Sharply Unclear

You've never shown a trace of human frailty,
No-one could ever catch you on the hop:
Each post-modern take on the action
would find you
already, in principle, totally hot,
all self-referential commentary
and a marketing man's sense of talk shop.

The sharper the image you cut
the more you seem unreal;
so sharp you could cut yourself,
transparently ideal.

We all know that hard-boiled look,
you cooked it up to face down the stares;
I feel like I'm walking on eggshells around you,
as though you're already no longer quite there.
You acknowledge your trauma,
your neurosis is stripped and laid bare.

The sharper the image you cut
the more you disappear;
so sharp you could cut yourself,
somehow this transparency's unclear.

All the mirrors in your playroom,
they twist your psycho-epidermis into shape.
No doubt you emerged in your make-up believing
quite simply, believing that you'd got it taped
but the vacancy you offered
is already a Cheshire Cat gape.

The sharper the image you cut
the more you disappeared;
so sharp you could cut yourself -
are you still really here?
And the sharper the image you cut
the more you seemed a fake,
so sharp you could cut yourself,
transparently opaque....
And the sharper the image you cut
the less you seemed alive;
so sharp, but this open book's
transparently jive.

You were so sharp you cut yourself,
so sharp you could cut yourself;
you were so sharp you made yourself
transparent
and transparently unclear.