December 14, 2013 § 2 Comments

Nevertheless, you will love me

Stretched on that salty rock,

the white velvet of your soles

and nacre of your toenails, the thighs

resting by alabaster lips, curls of gold

cascading over intumescent curves, all this

fitted to my eye, conveyed by the beholder,

translated into beauty by my own

dictionary, and once done I wrote the grammar.

Madame Artiste, I am the bull you rode

naked last night at the happening,

the whole town stunned.

Unconscious you gave birth

to that gouache, the baby astronaut,

then signed to me,

the doctor from the bull’s constellation,

who permits your canvases

to spring to life.

Line up in my chambers of reflexion,

never feeling the grip of embrace.

Since you died your works live in my eye,

captive energy, beauty in chaos;

nevertheless, you will love me.

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