My ambition has a hellcat’s heart –
impeded by my sentimental burlesque
queen-turned-zaftig ballerina’s art –
disingenuous unpalatable mix
of jaded scheme and naive dream
of conquering divine approval.
At first I thought to engineer its
prompt removal. But I have rather
come to like its tasteless volupté –
the sexy way it stumbles towards
plié; its flattering, coercive temptress
glance. I’ll let the hellcat dance.
.
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