Friday, 3 December 2010


A body.

Just, a body.

Bawdy jazz band clatters and the trumpet growls up your arms.
You manipulate childish props with poise:
Feathered-fan thigh and parasol neck.

I imagine bearded men caressing your form out of undulating stone.
Hot soft marble flowing into the shape of you, whilst your
Face looks absently skyward, lips eternally pursed;
Perched on your creamy plinth, a fixed thing.

Under all these lights as you peel off skin upon skin,
Dousing yourself with tepid champagne.
I half expect it to freeze, half to boil.

You could be a daughter of catastrophe.
Mislaid in a black and white photograph,
Your skin screeching or your form contorted and wrong,
Or piled with your brothers and sisters whilst vision blurs at the sight.

Though you could be a lost Renoir.
And museum curators must stitch your sundered form together again.
Remake your world: unfracture, uncleave.
Piece. By. Piece.

Cymbals, you bow, applause.
The stage lights dim.
You and your body leave together.

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