Sinuous slinking prima donnas, mimicking feline perfection,
All velveteen gestures and narcissistic grace,
Little waifs and vamps, sing for your supper!
Self-mesmerized, adoring your own mystery, you
Can only exist in the eerie drifting smoke-light,
Doomed to conjure and refine a half-life,
Sisters of the neon moon, delicately prancing
Or wriggling on the laps of fat wealthy men.
But how sad you were out in your ancient villages,
Slaves to custom and decency, the bane of all eyes
That could not perceive your special distinction.
The bus to the city was a last chance to be born,
Freedom to be what the nights had foretold,
To pass through the mirror, home at last.
No comments:
Post a Comment