inetto
Posted: August 17th, 2008, 12:46 am
come, let us follow the poet
on his day's journey.
I'm sure he won't mind, as
he thrives on the attention
given by his contemporaries, observe
the maestro as he sits in contemplation,
a lively intellect, engaged
by the seemingly trivial, his faculties
through rigorous mental calisthenics
honed like the tip of the rapier, about
to dissect, examine, re-examine--
the ordinary blossoms with his
kaleidoscopic vision, he thirsts
pours iced water from the carafe,
he ponders the evolution of indoor plumbing
that noble gift of the Romans, of which
he is greatly enamored,
the aquaduct--the Pont Du Gard,
after a milennium still functional.
ahh, the skill of these artisans... but wait
there's more, his restless intellect embraces
even the microscopic, the protozoa
that swim, ceaselessly meandering
within his glass, the varieties--
their inter-relationships,
the amoeba and paramecium,
rotifers, whose spiraling cilia
are the very essence of consumerism,
their sexual habits, proclivities, and desires--
such as they may be,
distract as they titillate, he wonders
why the glass is half full and departs.
onward, the street beckons--
the theatre of life,
he is a bella figura, ever cognizant
of his responsiblities to himself,
it is not enough that he knows, they
must know that he knows,
in the grand tradition of sprezzatura
he enters the arena like a bullfighter
aware of the eyes upon him, aware
of each nuance and affectation,
he plays the role fate has dealt like a Stradivarius!
he senses an air of turbulence rippling across the piazza...
La Contessa!
at last, the perfect object for his attentions -
worthy of his powers of seduction.
he familiarizes himself with the nature of the prey.
he notes her habits, her predilections-
her itinerary is a matter of public record.
he frequents her favorite cafe,
at the bookstore - he is there!
he offers the suggestion of a smile
as their eyes meet, poor child
she is his and she knows it.
How shall I describe his method, his technique?
If it could be bottled, well...
dream on my friends,
it's a matter of breeding that money cannot buy,
indeed, it is more likely to corrupt
in some inverted, rococo-like
nouveau riche display that is antithetical
to his natural sense of savoir faire.
La Contessa reclines in her boudoir
like one of Botticelli's visions, he enters
and spies himself in the mirror
with unaffected elegance and elan
(again la sprezzatura!)
he disrobes, casually
casting off his accoutrements
as if the leaves of autumn,
La Contessa waits like an oyster's pearl
her skin translucent, glistening
with the sweat of anticipatory desire.
he snorts with the passion of a stallion
as her little dog foo-foo
bites his exposed posterior -
the empire has fallen
on his day's journey.
I'm sure he won't mind, as
he thrives on the attention
given by his contemporaries, observe
the maestro as he sits in contemplation,
a lively intellect, engaged
by the seemingly trivial, his faculties
through rigorous mental calisthenics
honed like the tip of the rapier, about
to dissect, examine, re-examine--
the ordinary blossoms with his
kaleidoscopic vision, he thirsts
pours iced water from the carafe,
he ponders the evolution of indoor plumbing
that noble gift of the Romans, of which
he is greatly enamored,
the aquaduct--the Pont Du Gard,
after a milennium still functional.
ahh, the skill of these artisans... but wait
there's more, his restless intellect embraces
even the microscopic, the protozoa
that swim, ceaselessly meandering
within his glass, the varieties--
their inter-relationships,
the amoeba and paramecium,
rotifers, whose spiraling cilia
are the very essence of consumerism,
their sexual habits, proclivities, and desires--
such as they may be,
distract as they titillate, he wonders
why the glass is half full and departs.
onward, the street beckons--
the theatre of life,
he is a bella figura, ever cognizant
of his responsiblities to himself,
it is not enough that he knows, they
must know that he knows,
in the grand tradition of sprezzatura
he enters the arena like a bullfighter
aware of the eyes upon him, aware
of each nuance and affectation,
he plays the role fate has dealt like a Stradivarius!
he senses an air of turbulence rippling across the piazza...
La Contessa!
at last, the perfect object for his attentions -
worthy of his powers of seduction.
he familiarizes himself with the nature of the prey.
he notes her habits, her predilections-
her itinerary is a matter of public record.
he frequents her favorite cafe,
at the bookstore - he is there!
he offers the suggestion of a smile
as their eyes meet, poor child
she is his and she knows it.
How shall I describe his method, his technique?
If it could be bottled, well...
dream on my friends,
it's a matter of breeding that money cannot buy,
indeed, it is more likely to corrupt
in some inverted, rococo-like
nouveau riche display that is antithetical
to his natural sense of savoir faire.
La Contessa reclines in her boudoir
like one of Botticelli's visions, he enters
and spies himself in the mirror
with unaffected elegance and elan
(again la sprezzatura!)
he disrobes, casually
casting off his accoutrements
as if the leaves of autumn,
La Contessa waits like an oyster's pearl
her skin translucent, glistening
with the sweat of anticipatory desire.
he snorts with the passion of a stallion
as her little dog foo-foo
bites his exposed posterior -
the empire has fallen
