Did Paris Burn?

A poem

A shady room, a hungry cat, some brushstrokes away- Paris burnt, baby burnt - in fiddly clubs - in bouts of blaze

Other me — dressed inside out, veins on blood on upturned skin Mid-afternoon, opened in light as I tacked fake eyelashes on hung lids

Paris took a flame on its head and spun in circles, like a circus buffoon Paris took a flame for all of us in a peach gown, and 6-inch-high shoes

I dyed my mouth in sham L’Occitane en Provence -switched on Deep Fake (my drag epithet) -sashayed for my eightieth birthday Yaaass! the young queens cheered (in fake (deep) squawk)

Paris said, make way, you hag I watched Paris burn, burn to death I watched- -smoldering, pitch-golden streets of Montmatre -glaring, fall of the mighty Notre Dame I watched- my Paris in flakes just like me, its darling fruitcake

all — laugh, the queen’s arrived all — plead, the hem’s misplaced all — love, baby love

For Paris ain’t all that romantic For Paris is burning in its groin For Paris will take down its -old-tumbleweed-queen- on her last walk on the runway

My sweet - Deep Fake. À la prochaine.

~