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1 2 3 R LOUISE BROOKS AND GRETA GARBO SPEND THE NIGHT TOGETHER A L E X A N D E R T H E R O U X Let imagination be a form of memory allowing, by denying time, two beauties to caress, celluloid lovers in a room – it actually took place one night – a whispering detente with two Hollywood exquisites, a world above even A-list types, never mind lesser actresses of the was/then pricing sort and no end of dress-extras lolling around sets, big-bummed, hair like hatcheted flax, who had crushes on the two themselves and kept posters of Camille and Pandora? Who was the matchhead, who the match? when potassium chloride whipscratched red phosphorus, was it Greta caressing Weezie’s legs like beathing a beech bowl or Louise spoonroasting lovely Greta’s pale cheeks with her wimbling tongue? 1 2 4 T H E R O U X Y I see them eating with their hands, Louise in blue silk pajamas, naked from the waist up, neither for the Double-Talk Express (no information leads to misinformation), getting right to the point initially with plumulaceous kisses, earrings taken o√, an hour smelling bottles of Mohn perfume, glasses of aquavit with a 21-gun-salute; when each fed the other a cream, no trace of rubber taste, the defect of lesser chocolates. Greta then slips out of a crystal nightgown into the vair of which she mutters love. Mirror to mirror is not quite the image you want, not just black helmet hair as opposed to brown wispy bunting or Sweden trying cluck-talk to Cherryvale, Kansas. Garbo whose forte was intuitive éclat, not thought, had nothing like Brooks’s brain. Wordlessly, as naked as Bronzino Venuses, they express in the Monadnock formation what I would do, you would do, he, she, or it would do if memory were not required and imagination were real enough to allow time to give us either beauty to caress (or both) like celluloid lovers at midnight, sublime in bed, aflame, ready to pledge our troth. ...

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