Σάββατο, 18 Φεβρουαρίου 2012
On her dress she wears a body.
Woman’s body is as bumpy as my skull
Glorious if you are made flesh
Couturiers have a foolish profession
As foolish as phrenology
My eyes are kilos weighing the sensuality of women.
All things that swell advance in depth
The stars hollow out the sky
Colours disrobe by contrast
‘On her dress she wears a body.’
Under the heather’s arm
lurk shades of lunala and pistils
When the waters swirl down the back over sea-green
And the double conch of the breasts passes beneath
the bridge of the rainbow
And the perpendicular cries of colour fall on the
Sword of Saint Michael
There are hands stretching out
The drapes conceal the trick – all the eyes, all the
flourishes and all the habits of the Bal Bullier
And on the hip
The poet’s signature.