Diane Foster: Queen of Hearts

Queen of Hearts by AnnThraxx

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Nouvelle Vague Featuring Julie Delpy “La La La”


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The Crimson Quill is never in any peril of running dry. It’s like that haggard Aunt who rattles on and on at every family reunion, wonk-wonk-wonking in the manner of Charlie Brown’s teacher. There is always something to scribe about, wax ons to wax off, and there hasn’t been so much as a solitary dry spell for as long as it has been gushing. Indeed, gushing is the operative word when describing my reaction to bleeding out another adoring article about our beloved Dark Queen, our sweet Lady Die. The Keeper invariably becomes motor-mouth, revving reverence towards a true monarch of modern cinema and our undisputed True Scream Queen to boot. What can I say? We mad dog Englishmen do tend to say it as we see it.


What could possibly be said that hasn’t already come up in conversation countless times during the multitude of occasions I have sculpted prose around Lady Die? Are you fucking kidding me? I am Keeper, there is no apparent cease to my ramblings and, where she is concerned, rambling is my favorite pastime. If anything I am restricted by the limitations of diction. I belt it out like Englebert but still feel as though I’ve barely broken the skin. It would be preferable to me if I could learn another craft, perhaps balloon shaping or mime, something to afford me another vessel with which to adore her. For now  I shall continue to let the words walk that walk and do their talking for both of us.

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Aside from possessing fragrance of spirit so intoxicating that it could soften steel, Diane can also sing and dance. Being Diane, this means that she can sing and dance damned well. Case in point, she played Liza Minnelli in an off-Broadway production of That’s Liza and this in itself is no mean feat. Ordinarily the mere mention of Minnelli would be sufficient to break me out in angry ulcers and I make no secret of the fact that she aggravates the living shit out of me. Regardless of that… Cabaret? Need I say more. The moment I was armed with the Intel of Lady Die taking the reigns I actually liked Liza a little more immediately. That is no small undertaking and, in the same breath, neither is taking lead in a production of this caliber.

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Let’s also not forget the fact that she attended the PaperMill Playhouse Conservatory, beating off stiff competition from the likes of Oscar-bagging heavyweight Anne Hathaway to grab herself the prestigious Rising Star Award. While Haths was pimping herself out through family friendly fodder like The Princess Diaries, Di was producing and starring in an intimate piece of art written and directed by none other than Dark King, Matt Farnsworth which blew the lid on methamphetamine addiction, a topic close to their hearts and massively affecting the Mid-West at the time.


Iowa rightly soaked up the praise, making revered community figures out of both Matt and Diane and is now used as an educational tool, such was its authenticity. It exhibited her raw aptitude for acting, not the licks learned from her exposure to the industry, but the kind private schooling cannot teach alone. It is under her pelt, far away from the surface. It bubbles in a delicious broth deep in her soul and this has been proven time and time again. As Audrey Miller she lived her character, drank her in and swilled her around before spitting her back out in our appreciative faces.

Miller Killers by Death Maiden

So we’ve ascertained her acting prowess on numerous occasions and very soon we shall be treated to another example of the A-game that just keeps coming that is Diane Foster as she prepares to slip into those barbed-cuffs once more. But she really is the gift that keeps giving. Aside from her growing résumé there is constancy going down, daily photo shoots reveal her in a myriad of resplendent lights as she masticates the lens and devours our pitiful souls. Blood red is her color, crimson circumnavigates her tissue delectably and the glow which radiates from her simply flawless pelt is enough to stoke fires in the polar cap. And then she spirits us away with her ocular orbs.


Jeepers those Peepers



Jeepers take a look at those peepers
They’re keepers
Inviting high tide of sweet sorrow
As yesterday, so dying for tomorrow

Frightfully delightful
They can light up blackest nightfall
And I’d gladly beg for one slow death to borrow

Twin decadent jewels
Which effect through bled cause
Sentinels to perpetual vista

She incites such applause
As she seeps from our pores
With our final wish simply to kiss her



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Font drying up yet Keeper? Is it fuck! If I were the Quill then I’d scribe in my sleep about our salacious Queen. This is where we arrive at one of the other exclusive Di-isms which keep our love pots filled habitually. Her grace, in absolutely every transaction, puts a cygnet to shame. In an early piece she stated a passion for Poe and, in particular, To Helen. Being the charming English Gentleman that Keeper so clearly is, I cordially obliged her by including the poetry within the very piece I was scribing. I figured it was the least I could do after her turn as Audrey Miller had provoked a feeling inside me not accessed since Marilyn Burns crashed the wrong Thanksgiving Dinner back in ’74. Her response exhibited my point exquisitely as she was truly humbled by the gesture and this perpetuates daily with her response to the adoration thrown her way.

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Now I’m not about to take liberties with a sacrosanct piece of art from the hands of Edgar Allen Poe and slide out Helen to replace it with Diane, although I’d be bare-faced if I said that the thought didn’t cross my mind. I would rather convey once more the sentiment as homage to our film star from another time – Lady Diane Foster.

To Helen


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Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore
That gently, o’er a perfumed sea,
The weary, way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.


On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece,
And the grandeur that was Rome.


Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche
How statue-like I see thee stand,
The agate lamp within thy hand,
Ah! Psyche, from the regions which
Are Holy Land!


Edgar Allen Poe


Blue Cruel by Death Maiden

Am I done yet? Does a bear shit in a precinct? No, he bloody well doesn’t although I did hear somewhere that Yogi once sharted in his cell after being picked up in Central Park flashing at Boo Boo. Sick fucking bear. No, I really could continue and I think right now that is exactly what I shall be doing thank you very much. Also, I’m mildly aroused by the blatant exhibitionism displayed by our furry freakazoid Yogi so my cerebellum is required to stoop a little more gutter-side to get its ultimate licks. And how could I not? Does one speak fondly of Jaws without making mention of Quint? No one doesn’t. By the same token, the rind wrapped around Lady Die is far too lean not to make ourselves a bacon sandwich or three. I’ll even pepper them for you.

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So about that booty. Dagnabbit I’ve got nothing. Build myself up and then one mental image performs etch-a-sketch and leaves me without a pot to piss within. Refocus Keeper. Done. So… about that booty. Is there finer rump anywhere in the free world? If there is then I implore you to prove it and you will be the one to recoil with egg white on your schnoz. It’s simply the best… better than all the rest. It chauffeurs me to the Nutbush City Limits and tells me of second hand emotions. Pure Grade-A Venison. Nuff said.

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Flip to front-side and the giver keeps giving, enough to make the great Mother Teresa herself appear positively miserly. Her skin blanket is like fine blushing silk draped around her in a marriage which causes heart murmurs with every frame. We hang from one image and swing to the next like athletic gibbons, transfixed constantly by every single photographic benefaction. It even transcends sexual orientation as Woman Crush Wednesday proves weekly. There are plenty of feisty femme fatales out there who would gladly sip Chianti from her shaven haunch. Just keeping it real Grueheads, we’re all consenting and why not consent a little deviation from time to time?

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It’s the primal urges she evokes within our quills and quimms which pleasures me most to wax on. We are evolved from primates and there’s the clue… why not embrace our heritage and speak candidly of our forbidden desires. Why should they require being forebode, when that look of dark integrity in every glance from our Lady Die makes sweetest love to us wherever we stand, sit, crouch or lay? Angels look their most transcendent with a little blood on their faces and our Queen of Hearts, Diane Foster just so happens to fit it like mink.


Whoa by Death Maiden

Read Matt Farnsworth: King of Diamonds


Sin for our Queen… it delights her,


Keeper of the Crimson Quill

First Knight of TOK

Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014




  1. As our #CruelQueen we sin happily, eagerly on her behalf, in her honour. She makes our hearts fill near to bursting as our sister. There is no line to cross, she is both Queen and sister. She draws our lust as much as our love. You describe our Queen of Hearts perfectly Keeper, thank you <3

  2. Your words are a song of praise, homage. Our stunning scream Queen Die exquisite as porcelain. We love her!

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