Sheba by Anna Scotti
Dec. 19th, 2017 03:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
enot06https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2017/12/18/sheba
All that beauty never got me much; strangers laying claim to what they think they recognize, every smile a promise, and most the kind you hope they won’t keep. Beauty’s an old dog that’s too faithful, that sticks with you despite the curses and the kicks. They say it’s a mask, but it’s the opposite in fact; it reveals what’s inside, and everybody wants that sweet cream at the center of a chocolate éclair. What am I now but an old broad with glitter at her temples, scattered in her hair, yet I can’t stretch on the bus without staking a claim. All that beauty never got me much but trouble, and a taste for trouble, a folded note, a couple of drinks at the bar.
Автор по ссылке читает как стихи, но мне кажется, из это получится прекрасная песня. Жалко, что я не могу сделать из этого хрипловатый джаз.
All that beauty never got me much; strangers laying claim to what they think they recognize, every smile a promise, and most the kind you hope they won’t keep. Beauty’s an old dog that’s too faithful, that sticks with you despite the curses and the kicks. They say it’s a mask, but it’s the opposite in fact; it reveals what’s inside, and everybody wants that sweet cream at the center of a chocolate éclair. What am I now but an old broad with glitter at her temples, scattered in her hair, yet I can’t stretch on the bus without staking a claim. All that beauty never got me much but trouble, and a taste for trouble, a folded note, a couple of drinks at the bar.
Автор по ссылке читает как стихи, но мне кажется, из это получится прекрасная песня. Жалко, что я не могу сделать из этого хрипловатый джаз.
