The moment Rome adopted out of Satanic spite the spirit
of utmost, most radical hypocrisy as its exclusive religion
and started imposing it on the rest of the world, it started
killing the meaning, the purpose, the grandeur,
and the freedom of true art.
Renoir-fleshed women bright as lamps
used to be like oracles—they didn’t talk
nor needed to, and poets, artists, musicians
were made to them or suddenly appeared
from the sheer air or a rising tune
affable to fruit and wine in bottles
that silently mimed the figures
from which, with a Bacchic charm,
art has always sipped and drunk.
They were inmates intimate and close
ever to becoming better than immortal
in a colored verse that veered time about
just for the sake of their momentary glance
below a small straw hat with countryside
blooms and buds or for a cerise or even
garnet mouth—dipped in seasons’ heat.
Those were the Renoir-fleshed-out women,
the models with poses better than a mint
in which the state strikes monies and coins
from its hoarded bullion to feed the Beast.
These were the beauties of the captured light,
the new nymphs and vixens from the city sprung
with their own grimoires and bodies full of spells
archived by the sheen in the tresses’ ginger rivulets.
They were the mistresses of those sunburned fauns
whose art was the magic of a gesture and a merry act,
knowing how to serve an Eden on an outside table
on the balcony and by the river in a village restaurant.
Those dames prone to pagan robust, ancient virtues
could naturally handle gobs of knowing forbidden
and expelled from lecterns of the Sunday schools,
with the helpings of life’s pecked and relished nuts.
They are the free, eternally untamed Arcadian bathers
made and sent to knock and bash the twofaced cheats
and phonies, goons and loons of asses of the present-day
and all the ages which have been and will be in this world.
They are the descendants of the maenads and Bacchantes
that lead art’s feeling hand through times’ hazing maze
amidst café delicate and fragile sonnets in a pinch and cup
next to clear glasses’ clanging, glossy calls and cries.
They are the women of peach—the dillies, odd perfections,
Sirens of the seas and lights which they cast like a shade
on earth whenever they disclose or tie—another Odysseus
to his erect mast like a coward—sacked from Circe’s oven,
even though the ambrosia which they brew and administer
is ever close to their heart and saddle and their lips or lap
where beauty lives and glows in sinuous and molten flows
out of their divine and regal unfazed, unfussed down and fuzz.
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