Uccello su un Filo

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Adriana,
donna, donna,
how did it get so bad?
Your man’s making eyes
at your dirty-talking friend,
who fiddles with the books
and drinks Appletinis in mink.

What I don’t understand
as I watch you on the
courts, is where
it all went wrong —
from
leopardskin and
bin bags of Louboutins
to
croissants with detectives
who say that they’ll protect you
as you walk the line, and
trip over the curb.

White wine drink-driving,
claws like dragons
and crying
on cream leather;
no one knows you better
than yourself
any more. The ulcerations
on your colon, your body’s way
of keeping score;
your blue-black eyes
so deer-like you’ll end up getting shot.

Still,
you have the hair of a goddess —
those cigarettes won’t kill you,
your tresses are immortal.
Diamonds from
pawn shops may slowly
weigh you down; but the
white lines and push-up bras
will keep you on a high;
Adriana walks on stars.

Adriana struts the skies,
popping clouds like lonely hearts.
‘Sionara Arty,
your restaurant’s not enough.’
‘Bon giorno Tony,
and your great big arms.
Take me in your
four-wheel drive, and per favore
over-turn me. Make me upside down.’

Adriana La Cerva,
How will you get out?
You love your man with all you have
but it’s that love that’s
got you trapped – take two
steps back, look at those abs.
You’re a 10, he is a 7 –
and there’s no amount
of ecstasy can change
the mould of heaven.

Adriana,
bella donna, I’d give
seven pairs
of Manolo Blahniks, if you’d
just walk away.
All the glamour in the world
to hear,
‘click,
clack,
click,
clack,’
Adriana’s highest heels
walking down the stairs.

 

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