She loves and lies (a poem set in the 1920s)
SHE LOVES AND LIES
(a lost film set in the roaring twenties)
Once she had a dream
Hollywood when one is seventeen
Now she is just a lonely hasbeen
She’s only eighteen…
Here’s to the young lady, anyway
Skol — a toast to the moth!
Is it white? Does it shine?
Or maybe’s it just a cloth?
Sorry if she bores you,
My little blot…
A knife will do —
In your crotch!
Murder she says, murder she wrote
(I think I’m in love)
Here’s to the white moth
But beware, my lad:
She loves and lies !
Then she loathes and laughs…
She loves and she lies
She could set fire to your bow tie
With no regrets before and after
Then she would fly over smoldering fires
Welcome to the lost city of lies and no stars
Such a godforsaken place, though bonafide
A cassino made of glass and cold as ice
A sinking ship full of mice — wearing mink
(my pen ran out of ink…)
Don’t waste your time, butterfly
Just forsake all others
Roll the dice and have a good time
If you dare to survive
(I am not dead yet)
Moths are sinners in silk
Fools and flops, sluts and trollops
All lost — but clad in white satin, plus
They speak languages as dead as Latin
They are tearing me apart, but that’s life
We’re dropping like flies
Love no more, pain no more
Broken glass — Mute pins — all over the floor…
Remember, dahling:
she is the girl with the bee-stung lips
The white moth from Montmartre
Her curse was being too beautiful
Now this is the last dance, this is my last chance
Before the death of love and the birth of light
Beneath the cloth — a white moth
Waltzing into oblivion…
Here’s to the white moth
She loves and lies
She moves and she likes
She kills, so she thrives
(I love as I die)
Please, Mother Moth
Don’t smother me!
We are all the scum of the earth
And yet — mother me.
But beware, my lads
This is pure synthetic sin
Right over here,
underneath…
(Rat-tat-tat)
Toot-a-loo!
Pedro Dantas
2023
