Silhouettes of femmes fatale are back in vogue. While
smoke smolders,
drifting off cigarette holders, they swing Charleston,
and papa goes Dada as Samba beats throb as drums
pound Tommy-gun rhythms. Trumpets blare brassy tones
alongside the wail of clarinets, the doppler slide of
trombones.
We seek evenings of nightclubs, art deco cabarets, or
passing
some speakeasy’s bolted doorway, finally opened by
sentries
after whispering the password: “We was sent by the
twenties.”
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