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Arc Of Descent

Soft as an ocean, her skin, soft as cream,
White as milk and moonlight,
She dances half-naked, diaphanous,
Weaving webs between the legs
Of lounging diners who
Smiling, toast her as she passes,
Their mindless chatter tinkling,
Like pink champagne
Overflowing from crystal glasses.

She undresses to lecherous cheers,
Her laughter, a brook bubbling
On the untroubled surface
Of her bankable veneer,
Rubs feathered breasts
Soft against sandpaper cheeks
And visceral mouths:
These wolves now suddenly ridiculous:
Like little children
Dressed up in someone else’s finery.

She delights in her unsubtle youth,
The power to captivate and hold in thrall,
Her voodoo, this mistress of illusions:
She dissolves her soul before us,
Soluble in celluloid fantasy;
Pouting and posing, she is
Marilyn Monroe, Brigitte Bardot;
And one day, one day,
She will shoot up to cine-heaven,
A bright and blazing star.

But at twenty three, already she fears
The arc of descent, the magnetic touch
Of inevitable gravity: foreseeing the drab tales
Of how she was once so big
A whole room could not contain her;
The endless reminiscing, boring holes
In cruelly indifferent ears; the catalogues
Of wrinkles and requiems; the faded clippings
And sad remains; the dusted down show reels
Of another starlet, rotting away
In the vacuous chambers of Beverly Hills.

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