The Mrs.

We got on great.
Think of the spectacle of that.
Your love elsewhere,
sitting pretty, flashing.

Our reluctant heroine
has suffered delays,
hopped up on a titilating watercolor.
I think it's irrelevant.

Casting hiccups to paint
it out, the fake supermarket,
the actual figure -- just
here for the movies,
unafraid to lay herself bare--
immediately clicked
into weapons, as a human
serrated blade.

Filming the final scenes,
the tabloid world
has nothing further.
Some secret, some skeleton
scored in TV,
parasites in the blood,
a seductive fatalism.

Hollywood's bad girl
has never really mourned
just real things.
The explosive pictorial
side of celebrity
is a sucker's bet,
because I looked around.
The thrill of the mother,
a normal comedy,
hipster flick, map fetish,
a separate outfit to rub,
the steamier music.

Not just pawns,
dithering executives,
nesting instincts as daydream playthings,
tatooed on her left arm:
man-eater, Jessica Rabbit.