miércoles, 31 de marzo de 2010

klimt + ferlinghetti

They are kneeling upright on a flowered bed
       has just caught her there
                                    and holds her still
      Her gown
                     has slipped down
                                               off her shoulder
He has urgent hunger
                      His dark head
                                  bends to her
And the woman the woman
     turns her tangerine lips from his
             one hand like the head of a dead swan
               draped down over
                                          his heavy neck
                        the fingers
                            strangely crimped
                                         tightly together
       her other arm doubled up
                           against her tight breast
          her hand a languid claw
                                      clutching his hand
           which would turn her mouth
                                                    to his
  her long dress made
                    of multicolored blossoms
                            quilted on gold
   her Titian hair
                    with blue stars in it
And his gold
                   harlequin robe
                               checkered with
                                             dark squares
    Gold garlands
                         stream down over
                                          her bare calves &
                                              tensed feet
Nearby there must be
                    a jeweled tree
                              with glass leaves aglitter
                                   in the gold air
 It must be
                             in a faraway place somewhere
      are silent together
                                 as in a flowered field
                   upon the summer couch
                                                which must be hers
    And he holds her still
                                   so passionately
             holds her head to his
                                 so gently so insistently
               to make her turn
                                       her lips to his
 Her eyes are closed
                              like folded petals
      will not open
                               is not the One
Short story on a painting of Gustav Klimt, Lawrence Ferlinghetti

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