 | ||
| Was this the face that launched a thousand ships? |
Yet become immutable, opposed as foes
Rivals declare the other’s obsolescence
While their carrion is food for crows.
Their paints are one
Yet their minds are twain
The canvas gone
While the wretched remain
Tarkovsky is the eye’s delight;
And yet, my mind, it calls for Trier!
Upon his frames mine eyes delight
Relaxed like bodies on brok’n bier.
The Russian begs my hand in marriage
Yet Lars is lying in mine bed
When I talk to one he will disparage
The other, who remains unwed.
Oh divine essence! Oh portents pure!
Wherefore dost my yearnings lie?
The pervert Dane with his allure?
Or blesséd Soviet with funeral cry?
I lust for both, their arts are true-
But at a distance, seem like poo.
 | |
| Phallic Symbol |
No comments:
Post a Comment