Vermillion curtains hide the irresistible – every ruffle underlines the whimsical nature of desire – the wavy outlines are every bit attractive – they appeal to your senses and you can’t help yielding to the dark red wild temptation setting to flames your profoundest sensations. Byron’s rhymes would lie down and not die, would sleep on the scarlet silky sulky sawdust and watch their rotten rot visions in their dreamless cinnabar slumbers. Awaken soul-shaken artists would letter blackly heartbleeding reading matter – no matter if bleeding – to shape rouge savage wine, a bursting fountain of yearning in a single goblet and let it flow – a crimson flower on a crimson table-cloth – a symbol of immense power.
A power to delay a Doomsday, which is rightfully hanging, is it, not, just standing there, counting, making mistakes, forgetting in her trade mark pre-dancery affectation. Leaning over our yesly paradise – she! green-clad goddess – o! ginger! Yes, yes, yes, she’s gone, I said, not for good at all, will pour that tinto good for me. I will. The cemetry of cigarette-stubs would cry over the departure – no more smoke: the ashes are dead white: don’t look into my eyes – they’d give away the yes! I look straight into the face of a back, back! in an after-dancery mood may well be. The eagless passes by elegantly – rossa! rossa! – but the only joy streams from the verdant deity – hellenized? yes! o ginger!
In lindens’ shade, in the heart of the right fierce past with a liberated tit in one hand and a glass in the other, all foggy and blonde. Would. Wish we had more geld in our pockets to let it go on and on – o, merry times – blessed times for floundering in the beauty – eau de la vie, yes and yes and one more yes to top it off!
12. 12. 2012