(A poem in the Sestina form)
Her bodice, tied and criss-crossed with silver,
cinches her waist to an hourglass Dita.
Miss Mimi Parfait strides the stage in high
black heels, her hair jet-beaded; flicks feathered
fans, her crimson lips pout for his attention,
her movements sharp, controlled and sensual.
As she weaves around the stage, this sensual
huntress owns the space; it feels like her silver
screen. Pulls, frou frou, winks for his attention –
and as an idol, so risqué, with Dita-
style décolleté, she shakes her feathered
fans: the barometer goes bom, bom, high.
A rush of adrenaline sends her high;
she smooths her stocking from the thigh, sensual,
slow, down to her toe – and sweeps her feathered
fans into a shimmering arch of silver.
She aims her pout, chic a la Dita,
to ‘bourbon man’ – she likes his attention.
Her bump ‘n’ grind demands his attention.
Hips snap, left, right, then circle – he’s as high
as The Shard: thinks she’s hotter than Dita,
jaw drops at her shimmy, shimmy, sensual
display, as her fringed costume sways, silver
eyelashes dazzle. Hot, fluttered, feathered.
Suggestive glances behind her feathered
fans, gets too much, rouses raw attention –
knocks back his bourbon, she flashes silver
garter, puts d- into derriere. High
on a pedestal she’s his dream: sensual
pin-up, real, Mimi, move over Dita.
In dreams, she aspired to be like Dita-
a vintage, retro-style parade, feathered,
always feathered, and now with a sensual
touch, places the tip of her glove, attention,
between his white teeth, he bites – now he’s high,
the glove slips from her hand like quicksilver.
Move over Dita, he wants her attention;
her feathered caress, her natural high –
her sensual touch, on a bed of silver.
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