Sunday, September 1, 2013

This Dancing Cinderella is no Miley [Destiny Hope] Cyrus

Unlike Ms. Cyrus in Disney Technicolor,
Cindy wears black high-tops,
and cobbler’s wax won’t hold them down.

She drives a red Ford Fiesta, wears a vinyl mini,
works night shifts at Corrugated Box Incorporated
for twice minimum wage.

On weekends, she twerks with her prince
‘til dawn, her brow boiling like ethanol,
her feet tireless on the dance-hall parquet.

She burns her lust to cinders,
sleeps among the ashes to noon
in a brass-framed bed.

There are no hazel twigs for her devotions,
no pigeon houses or pear trees for hiding.
She is a new-world doll locked in uppercase,

born into a world already made to order,
a Lady Gaga wannabe, without media’s mania;
she rolls boyfriends like stones.

She is Jekyll and Hyde trapped
in the straight jacket of selves,
with neither fortune or (ill) fame,

“A poor player that struts and frets
[through life on iPhones, Facebook, Twitter]
and then is heard no more.”

A version of “This Dancing Cinderella…” was originally published in Oyez Review.

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