From the final letter of Mina Harker:

High contrast black and white photo of Drew Barrymore, black copy flush center in a narrow column over a wall, "'It's more about freedom than sexuality,' says the actress of being photographed nude, 'If you're naked in a classy way, there's something totally free about it.'"  Drew's nakedness has dissolved to grain, her nipples melting into gray pools of aureola cross-legged classy in white heels with large bow ties at the ankles three bobby pins stripe the side of her plastered-down bob, penciled eyebrows arch with mild surprise across her forehead wide, empty, slick as the paper she's printed on where did her nose go her fragrance is Guess, "a spirited blend of fruits and florals," Drew leans back in a easy chair her arms flung straight up, gardens blooming from her armpits, hands turned outward, fingers spread as if she's throwing shadow puppets on a wall:  rabbit hopping, duck quacking, or a man stooped in a wheelchair-it's Larry Eigner-facing a packed auditorium, with a large orange flower arching from the back of his chair and over his head, he listens attentively to Charles Bernstein's vigorous delivery take it/ every atom of me/ belongs to you/across distances/ one space beside me Rendezvous sniffs his fingertips, "I can smell you on me."  A toy cart/ up-ended, a/ begging dog/ quiet Drew frolics with seagulls across Coney Island's deserted beach in short-shorts (about $105) and combat boots, her Emporio Armani trench (about $615) flaps in the breeze, as do her arms lines in small detail/ similars large Drew in lace and feather wrap-top and satin pants, cigarette dangling from her full recumbent lips, a dame who's been around the block, once she was a star but now she spends afternoons in the filtered light of her bungalow clinking the ice cubes in her Scotch, smoke curling above her head like a memory, the bell rings, she opens the door cocks her hip, "Yeah, babe, whada ya want?"  The camera goes click click click click post-coital but without the wrinkles to savor it, bigger than life like a Jeff Koons figurine I imagine Drew kitty-corner to Michael Jackson and Bubbles in a stark white gallery, gold trim gleaming, tiny red lightbulb at the tip of her cigarette.  Whenever sex is over I feel like a has-been.

                                                                                                                            —Dodie Bellamy

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