the cult of the ideal woman.
silent era mignon.
pass the baton.

a little diplomacy.
a little electricity.
and a waterfall of curls.

she moves with the fayre.
I see her idling on Fifth Avenue
and at work behind the counters
of the stores.

besotted men plant young, leafless trees upside-down,
roots in the air, simply because
she wants it that way.

a groundbreaking end
to The Broken Oath,
and her name on the credits
for the very first time.

screens, fans, and umbrella stands.
or maybe lilies in a field of seclusion.
she is stardom.
she is the eternal question.

“Men have never failed to disappointment me, which is why I always wear petticoats of the softest vintage silk. Just to remind me of what hope feels like against the skin.”

“I would rather be a pessimist who wears optimistic underwear - French knickers, please, in rose-pink satin;
Than a greyscale optimist wearing overboiled cotton."

a feature
of drama
now in
her proposal
my palpable
fave of
penetrable cave
as starlet's
life in
director of
dream she
dance her
tassel to
this soundtrack
of ska
with a
street presence

Where does the canvas lie,
What does the paint conceal,
While deceiving my eye,
Swapping the false and real?