 |
| With Keef |
She was a suitably dissolute member of the Royal Court of
Rock. In through the backdoor with Fellini and Warhol.
Then on the arm of ill-fated Brian Jones, and contiguously
joined to junkie Keith Richards.
Always stronger than the men, but without their discipline or guitars.
 |
| All yesterday's parties |
And there were others. All through it she swayed like a wasted
enchantress, leaves of the Black Forest commingled with trellises of blond hair
all dusted with pixie powder.
Anita
Pallenberg remains beautiful in a tableau of three-chord decadence, spun by
late-night exhortations for flesh and sweat and blood, excesses amplified
through Marshall stacks and road-house thunder beats.
(See the witch deep in the dark mountain’s den, dancing by a
fire orgy, imprisoned and crazed, for she on honeydew hath fed and
drunk sweet milk of decadence).