Shoehorned to the top of the effervescent echelon – queer little adulterous blue-eyed boy.

Feminine aspect or matter of fact made up in man-made mascara? Naturally…
Only nobody can cope with this living, seething theatricality show – an Englishman with manly manicured hands.

And New York’s finest soldiers shall sell their own misshapen, mistaken libidos to settle his explosive soul. Nobody knows where to next but for himself this utter digression, if we will let it be.

Still a silly little sin to be gay with AIDS in Philadelphia, baby!!
Make hay – needlework impassioned within, til making some sort of over-embellished fashion-forward sense all together again.

Fifteen minutes of infamy and we’re just about done for now, thanking you kindly, his dearest *Sir vent-riloquist Crisp.

Seem the Eagles just cannot kill the Beast. Feast, please.

R.I.P. *Sir John Hurt X / Quentin Crisp

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