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.