naked as jaybirds,
balancing barefoot, high-wire
on the rim of the railing out on the
If we are not the usual blue movie queens anymore,
let's own it and strut anyway.
Those jaded trolls operating the trolleys and booms
wouldn't know real beauty
if it bit them in the ass and sang La Marseillaise.
In the rooms we will come and go,
talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
for the long-awaited re-release of all our star turns
on blu-ray and dvd,
making us goddesses again and forever,
eternal and incorruptible,
like some sort of erotic saints.
Listen though, baby...
come close, my peanut, my prairie rose.
At heart I am as wholesome as a Michigan apple,
polished up and shining.
My skin turns red any time you look my way.
Today I scribbled down a poem for you,
and hid it in the folds of your bed.
I know you hate store-bought sentiment, but nonetheless
I dare to wish you a happy St. Valentine's Day.
I dare to eat a peach, if only in my dreams;
Apologies to T.S. Eliot.
My first dog's name was Phoebe. I grew up on Bates street. That makes "Phoebe Bates" my porn star name.