By Adrienne Weiss
It is a actual collision of technical services and style. it's a classically lyrical, deeply subjective exam of the randomness of attractiveness from a voice sharpened opposed to the sides of affection, worry and craving. even supposing the poems are principally consecrated within the daily, their subject matters go beyond the obstacles of position. during this publication, the poet references an odd gallery of items and pictures, the 'glitter and waste' from the sacred to the profane -- from an aquamarine gown and a cavalier bartender, to the ruins of romance and a terrible revelation on the Anne Frankhuis. This assortment bargains an international as noticeable throughout the eyes of Rhiannon, the Celtic goddess of the underworld, interpreted through Stevie Nicks, and imagined in flip via the ultra-contemporary Weiss, an ingenue whose middle beats furiously, jets of clever blood.
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Extra resources for Awful Gestures
It was October when I foolishly followed you to Malabar, its stone entrance. Under the cupola we took shots of tequila and you auditioned my laugh, said it was baroque, all vampire teeth. I knew you like a fox with a craft for charm that unfurled, taught me to suspect all black eyes. But I couldn't knock my heels three times or read between our scripted lines. And with your good direction, I dramatized love out of the clamour of rehearsed pillow talk. You grew appropriately bored and abandoned our show at my climax, a vaudevillian exit.
I play him like a composition and don't pay well for a model. There is little give to what I give. I praise his marble torso, my artistic habit. He exists primarily of what abandons me: with each exhale, I burn a little less. I want to join him in the unfinished study, but can't find a reason to leave my place on the other side of art. Clearly I am a liar, trying to fit within the captured stillness of his likeness. Aching with myth, the sculpted linger of his gaze, I fumble toward the marble's release.
You grew appropriately bored and abandoned our show at my climax, a vaudevillian exit. It's just like you, Volpone, I called, tweaking my tail with pride, making quick on a plastic broomstick, the gold fluff of the curtain, my cape. You — J2 — left your snarling heart carelessly like a scarf in the dressing room, you were too young. I defended my fall for you: it was in my nature and I was never a good student. This old stage tired all your reasons, these terrible games. You tricked and I treated.
Awful Gestures by Adrienne Weiss