I Know That Whenever A Group Of

She Said To The Daisy Girl With Her Big Brown Eyes: 'i Will Not Have It Plain. No. Fancy. It Must Be Fancy!' She Meant Her Future. A Moon-daisy Dropped To The Floor, Down From Her Hair, Like A Faintly Derisive Sign From Heaven.

Our Fingernails Match Our Toenails, Match Our Lipstick Match Our Rouge...the Habit Of Applying Warpaint Outlasts The Battle.

I Drew The Curtains To Conceal The Sight Of My Father's Farewell; My Spite Was Sharp As Broken Glass.

Women's Sexy Underwear Is A Minor But Significant Growth Industry Of Late-twentieth-century Britain In The Twilight Of Capitalism.

For All Cats Have This Particularity, Each And Every One, From The Meanest Alley Sneaker To The Proudest, Whitest She That Ever Graced A Pontiff's Pillow — We Have Our Smiles, As It Were, Painted On. Those Small, Cool, Quite Mona Lisa Smiles That Smile We Must, No Matter Whether It's Been Fun Or It's Been Not. So All Cats Have A Politician's Air; We Smile And Smile And So They Think We're Villains