Willie Smith


Annette up on the screen performs the mobius strip. Casts over each gladiator a net. Casts blouse and skirt off. Flips into the audience black stilettos. We migrators-from-reality duck. 

She slips from her slip. Hangs off the candelabra bra. Snaps with the twang of an Appalachian diphthong thong. Sheds, python renewing the moon of her skin, nylons.

The mole on her tit waxes mad. Even the pasties come unglued. 

She dances – arm over nipples, palm guarding bush – pair of dice for snake eyes loaded – flashes of paradise. Blows the bridge of a kiss, wriggling off stage. Leaves behind a heap of cloth, whose heat fails to penetrate the film.

Still – through restless imagination – the audience rises.

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