Fiddling while the Woman Falls

Androgyny, your name is branded in city skyline,
soaring bands of steel skeleton, strength
kept under crowns of ziggurats or spires
of Corporate kingdoms, your intoxicant Maker's Mark.

Static, yet sailing on tempestuous winds
without the Mal de mer,
Warhol saw you as celebrity, an Edie Sedgwick,
but fallen, you are far from Vitruvian ideal,
twist and twined from sacred geometry.

The façades--cold and placid
without reliefs, tympanums or friezes--
are starved, weary for the timeworn
Ionic or Corinthian flourish.

To eclipse the fickle periods of vogue,
cheaply, you disrobed your entasis
of civic virtues, religion, and gender
that fall into the base you wear like heels of hubris
by Alexander McQueen.

Reflective with bays of glass,
which begs the question of purpose
for others to peer in or you to see out,
you shine less like a Starlet
than a salacious satellite of rock
and craters.