by: Nina Anin
This should be read as an antique piano,
sans tuner. Think electric stars,
widowed models in a trench war, think
Juliette in a moldy hut with deer skulls on the wall,
rabbits playing drug lords, liars in laurel crowns
How much of her will come back to haunt in
graffitied murals of Hollywood, branded into wine
While bedridden, remember Juliette's treasure chest
Holly would have pillaged those but tell you at once,
try being Macbeth in an electric chair
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