42: Dropper

He's dropping names on my foot
like anvils
and I chuck it at the next limo passerby.
I'm in a purgatory heaven making mountains out of lies...

But look - the stars are a-gleaming
with their Dior fashion earrings
and I'm blinded by the rays of light radiating from fake tans searing.
In the queue to catch a glimpse; flash photos in an accolade,
Strolling around with ghost parades
all screaming and a-wailing.

Just a few seconds for the crowd to die,
then resurrect as they naturally do,
like they're done with this life here and now,
reaching for the unattainable.
So shiny and clean, like the soles of their feet.