A few lines for the red-haired singer

August 20, 2015

She drinks like she’s
sliding into a martini glass the size
of a swimming pool.
They say the past cannot be repeated,
yet the crowd finds her every time,
a canary in a menagerie
for the broken, the bacchanal. 
The piano weeps the notes on her face.
Her eyes, a green light clouded by
a fog of tears. Her dress is yellow like
money, like mansion.
Yellow like
decay, like a death-car.
There are golden girls,
endlessly desirable,
but she is merely a girl in gold,
tarnishing and tarnished.

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