cinematic comparison of her life to that of celluloid life
what would the marquee to her theatre read from day to day?
up in lights her name would illuminate the street below
passer-bys would stop and think I wish I was there too
images of dead movie stars shine like sparks in her eyes
Marilyn Monroe, Greta Garbo
Lillian Gish, Mae West
ladies lusty by pure memory alone
she looks at the photos of them she has tacked to her wall
and sighs in contemplation
knowing that she’ll never attain the glamour of by-gone days
and in her head she plans to poison herself by the age of thirty
watching all the beauties in black and white has made her vain
she can’t stand the thought of becoming older
losing herself to the ravages and wrinkles of age
she longs to have blue eyes that twinkle in the spotlights
seeing her name on a marquee just isn’t enough
she stares at her reflection in the mirror and silent hatred burns
cold as blue, intense as impenetrable fog
her fist hits the glass and it shatters round her feet
the chime of beauty on the brink of madness
and she calls out to the portraits of herself on her wall
not fathoming what is really to come
she runs through the building with gasoline spilling over the aisles
silent visitors watch the silver screen in a daze
the smell of gasoline barely budges a hand
locked into the gaze of Greta Garbo’s eyes
though in black and white, still gripping, to say the least
she imagines that the camera is on her
and her lips move in a close-up shot
mouthing the words ‘vengeance is mine’
the camera pans up to her eyes as they flash one last sinister glance
laughing, she drops the match
setting herself and her theatre on fire
the people stream out of the building screaming
yet she runs up to the disintegrating screen
still with Greta’s eyes looking down on her
and stops, dropping to her knees
she can feel the skin melt from her bones
but she does not bother to scream
immortalized on her own marquee
her name still shines down on the pedestrians on the street

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