Fame, Baby

fame, baby

Consider night´s bridge
ablaze with copper lights:
two harlequins escort you,
sounds of wild hurrahs.
The sapphire river sighs.

Maybe there's no siren inside glory.

Your celebrated man in the bowler hat
lounging under the arch
tongues
slow blue notes,
blots out distractions.

Diana shimmies to Deep Purple in Berlin.

Listen,
taking that route
may not be a bargain.

Sure, you´ll meet Diana dancing,
red dress on fire, strobes
streaking purple ripples where
rain drops spill.
When you become her lover,
velvet tongues will hiss.

Maybe there´ll be
no alarm at midnight,
maybe you won´t climb the temple steps,
watch your heart sliced up,
fed to hungry fans.

But don't count on it:

gods who reveal themselves
in glittering shapes,
appear, then disappear.
You grab the golden ring,
you take the idol's chance.

by Nan Williamson

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