In most the high and palmy state of Rome,
when Eroica assembled the throng to the agora,
to the exceeding special cabinet of curiosity, in fact.
a scalloped-topped cream-colored cabinet 
to ensconce her shoes of tan and taupe
and her silks and muslin—they thrilled 
and sang it matched the buttressed archway to the room— 
a feeling both dark-Gothic and at once clinical.

Her bedroom was useful now,
where high design met the nadir of Hellenism 
and an assorted dash of Edgar Allan Poe celebrated
with her rare and radiant iPhone covered in rhinestones
that would tell the world, “nothing more”.

Very few beauties are gabby,
but for Sleeping Beauty and Maleficent—
& my phone’s been getting photos 
dozens on the hour through my chamber door,
those kind of godawful drunken interruptions 
make me want to grab a notebook
to set down each alarum distinctly remembered.
But I’d rather hear proclaim her crazed furniture
worship in Franco-Farsi or French, then Farsi,
no I’m not crazy about pixilated renderings.
I’m not crazy about silicon dreams cutting 
my coffee streams.

Give me a woman that talks the entire
time like my lady

                    who clamors, apprehended

especially useful
                    at such given moments.

These fantasies could be problematic.