by Deborah Russell

He spins, bows and gracefully twirls
a mirror, for his court.
The Princess spun, with auburn curls
Mother's slip, whirls in silken thrills
of beautiful dreams

Each day he wipes the dust from glass
to view secret colours
as time slipped beauty into past
slowly enough, he'd thought to last —
in beauty's dream

Where he would remain genderless
and dress himself in silk
to dream and write of tenderness
erasing doubt, in subtleness,
his beauty

Each day, dust grew darker, thicker
His eyes dimmer and grey
The beautiful dream fades quicker
In candle light still — the flicker,

He grand stands before the mirror
in regal appearance
his soldier of beauty clearer
His deliberate chin, nearer

1 2 3 4 5 6

Photograph copyright © by Jean Harvey. All rights reserved. Used by permission.
Text copyright © Quentin Crisp Archives. All rights reserved.

Site Copyright © 1999–2007 by the Quentin Crisp Archives
All rights reserved.