Marchesa Luisa Casati

Dec 27, 2009

Marchesa Luisa Casati
Adored an extravagant party
Fresh chicken blood
Down her dresses would flood
So inspiring the Illuminati
She was a doyenne
A fashion icon
And she played a leading part
As an occultist
A muse for artists
A living work of art
Her skin was moonlight
Her hair a fire-light
And her looks would silence rooms
Vermilion lips, bush-baby eyes
Ability to mesmerise
With the wildest of costumes
The Marchesa
Luisa Casati
Was the brightest of the glitterati
She was feted and venerated
By the Belle Epoque cognoscenti
She had cheetahs
On turquoise leashes
Oiled-up black boys in gold-leaf
While she paraded in coats of sable
With nothing underneath
She’d go walking
Set tongues a-wagging
But they all could go to hell
She had the riches and the glamour
To drown out the jealous clamour
(and three palaces as well)
Creatives used her
But it amused her
To be an artist’s catalyst
Man Ray enshrined her
And defined her
Photo tres surrealiste!
Today’s designers
Need no reminders
Of Casati’s special looks
An intoxicating mixture
Plus her pictures are a fixture
In museums and art books
A social whirl of pretty girls
And prettier men of gaiety
Around her limbs the snakes would curl
Lending her notoriety
Created her own occultist world
And haunted the minds of artists past
Luisa Casati: High Priestess of Party
Was destined not to last
Marchesa’s exotic life unfurled
The money was spent, the game was up
Her artifacts were sold
Her palaces all were boarded up
It was the ending of her world
The artists had put their brushes down
The party was ended: Casati upended
Her ship was going down

Yes, all the money was gone
(She never really sorted that out. She should’ve sought the advice of a good financial advisor).
Then she might have retired in security
In the knowledge she was safe in perpetuity
But instead she spunked millions on a dazzling life as a
Shooting star in a galaxy
Leaving her mark on the firmament
A high-octane comet
A rocket
A celestial body
But bright stars always burn out, don’t they?
Bright stars always burn out, don’t they?
Bright stars always burn out.
Don’t they?

Those lips vermilion
Ate through the millions
(so the gossip writers told)
It was the changing
Of The Season
(a fallen leaf turned black from gold)
Picture the image:
In bins she’d rummage
For broken feathers for her hair
Forlorn hostess
Who had the mostess
But it vanished in thin air
They interred her
With the glamour
That was suited to her days
As a living
Piece of artwork
A muse, with hair ablaze
She wore eyelashes
In her coffin
And her favourite Pekinese
Was buried with her in the coffin,
Both so elegantly rotting
In Old Brompton Cemetery!
Oh – a patron of all the things arty
Now a hostess at Heavenly parties
For lest we forget
It’s not over yet for
Marchesa Luisa Casati
Da-dum!


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