Monthly Archives: March 2018
Rending the cosmos, to midwife its own star-seed, to papoose night-bloom. (Artwork by Izumi Yokoyama) Advertisements
Not a simple feat, to follow one’s own footsteps– I, me, her, repeat.
In winter’s maw, snow, flutters of feathery pecks– kisses, melt to rash. (Artwork by Hiroshige)
Matron saint of reps, one word, next, again, the same– Style, the modern rage. (Picasso’s portrait of Gertrude Stein)
Succubus to self, modeling Salome, dance of the seven deadly veils, thinned, to bare pleasure, and visitation rites.
Those crisp autumn nights, alone, with miles and miles of thoughts worn to the bone. (Painting by Edward Hopper)
To paint a blood-sport, matador, faring no bull– dark, in need of stars. (Artwork by Mark Rothko)
Committing arson, five-alarm siren on screen– Louise Brooks, how you burned.
Men, who took the fall, to keep the world in stitches– Clowning achievement. (Film still from Limelight, the only film in which Chaplin and Keaton appeared together).