A shot of cinnamon across the dancefloor,

turning all eyes that mark her into coals, popping her,

she has heather in her heels - wild and witty and walking purple,

incense spiralling like the good L.A and driving down,

she could hijack the whole of the USA, bottling Bukowksi

with her laughter as her work, and her drug as her rhythm

and her spooky sister soul in the flick of her blue feline.

She could spark a crossword with her philosophy

when others bait their irony with their shoes,

and a kind kind of crimson hidden in her cheek and chest

that has all friends under her house arrest, giggling madly

and loving her so:

the porcelain pixie, the Bettie Paige in Snow.