In atelier’s confines, an unseen canvas,
not for my eyes, plays upon maestro’s
fragmented mind.  He knows that I see
all through fraudulent spectacles, wry
smile yanking at dripping lips on this
formless day, almost gone as we sip
on snifters of sunset, honeyed and
hot on espresso coated throats.

Venetian blue clad mademoiselles
sneak in through open apertures,
inhaling paint fumes, sour and stark,
still lingering from desperate December
evenings, when steady fingers trembled and
blushing sacrifices went up in flames
while shedding slick, greasy tears under
the artificial glow of night.

I was not put on this earth to pick up
stacks of out-of-date newspapers, he exhales
with disdain, regarding me warily with an
Aperol-tainted face.  Those half-baked
heralds scattered upon floorboards, those
collapsed playing cards of the lowlands,
those bleating sheep, those fountains
of songs, those aves del paraíso, falling atop
each other heavily with silent, gaping
mouths like vanquished bulls left to bleed
out beneath an apathetic star.

In space between forefinger and thumb,
luminous suits fall under sweeping veils of
tyranny. A sky that we cannot see becomes
camouflaged by clouds that we cannot touch
and the advancing storm beyond the far
wide-window is nothing next to the great
squall within.

In the corner by the fifth column, fantastical,
muted labyrinths of flesh with gleaming
teeth soundlessly beg to be made whole through
vacant iguana eyes, desperately desiring to
be unshackled from the eternal shades of
gray that fused their shattered bones
together as the deafening roar of the almighty
elephant dragged on.

…ayúdanos…

—————-

This is the final installment in a series of five poems inspired by the photography of Constantine Brassaï.