Christine Keeler (1942-2017)
1
Rest in peace, Christine Keeler,
far from the razor and potato peeler,
far from the drugged drug dealer
far from the groper and feeler.
You deserve a Shelley or Keats,
not a yours truly who bleats
like some sore shallow throat
who only gets one’s goat.
Always a bridesmaid, always confetti,
always a male Christina Rossetti,
I dearly wish I had known you
and in the crisis could have phoned you.
I wish that I had been your friend,
and had been there at the end
to tell you what I wanted to say:
“Christine, have a great day!”
2
Rest in peace, Christine Keeler,
far from the weasel wheeler-dealer,
far from males who cheat,
far from gigolos in heat,
a poor, pretty party girl
caught up in the social swirl
of London’s libertine nightlife—
the bane of the pimp Profumo’s wife,
an uncut diamond in the rough,
no lipstick, no powder puff,
no glutinous make-up
to get dry and cake-up,
no stiletto heels to kick up,
no husband after whom to pick up.
Your complexion was as clear
as a baby’s pampered rear,
as white a heavenly cloud
as the drab London sky allowed.
as the drab London sky allowed.
Keeler striding chair, c. 1963
