joi, 4 martie 2010

Fanny Brice

A stream runs through me with my birthday present: 
An old decrepit stage
It cracks each time my thumbs caress the footprints on its surface
The holes through which I eavesdrop in the damp wood
Mimic the outlines of my curious ear, drawing a seashell
To my childish delight, their prosthetic Abracadabra;
I capture music that has never been recorded
Tinkles forever in rehearsal,
Unable to eschew ingenuity
However under pretense of perfectionism.
And so I see The Follies crazed and vivid in the backstage
Waiting for a command to pop out
Hoping to turn a foot stretch in a proud step,
And then another
But then remembering they're not allowed
Remembering they have not yet to master tiptoes;
It's quite a life form what they share in the unseen
Parallel to the red curtain –
The laughter and the small talk;
They blush while gazing at the oval they so wish to dance on
In order to be baptized –
Identity papers only lie in beauty;
The limelight is a hoarse seduction
Prepared to ossify their chuckle in a diagnosis
Of lunacy and nearing death
A black voice gently orders them to step ahead and learn
A lesson in grace and suicide:
Chin up, shoulders pulled back adroitly
Precision in the spreading thighs
Toes skimming wood while jolting
All replicas of jolly living 
And so they find they cannot match the blubbers of their nameless frenzy
With symmetries ending in a rhyme,
A vertical demeanor back and forth
No thumb's allowed to wave or scratch their heads outside the repertoire
No arm can curve while halted by a sudden thought
Just mournful lines in compass motion, they render
Flawless calligraphy in thinking
Their soul assassinated for a baptism.
They conjure red ink to usurp my stream 
Proud to be worth every carnation they are darting 
On the dance table where I'm auditioning now.

Photo & Source: "Woman in a Corset" by Henri Toulouse Lautrec –

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