A DECADENT MANIFESTO
A Decadent Manifesto
I want to wake up at dawn and squint my eyes to an azure sky cuddled
by falling ochre leaves of a hundred and two year old tree hovering over
a warm bed of stargazers as they slowly rise their spotted scalps
and stretch their lean chartreuse pistils to say “good morning” to the bulk
of flying stone buttresses of a lonesome Gothic cathedral who has
just settled into his red velvet tufted coffin amidst the opiate candle light
of juicy, exhausted candelabras that mimic the crusted columns
of scratched gold angels protruding out of broken mirror balls that reflect the endless linked bronze, copper, and iron chains that secure, rather aimlessly, the violet stained glass windows sulking in the tainted, tragic love of Romeo and Juliet’s coupling just to get you wet from the misted dewy light, the all-encompassing, extra-terrestrial embalming, caressing, clouded, ultra ultra light that glides down like a bald eagle on a ruined village steeped in honey tide pools with sequined turquoise mermaids searching for diamond glitter to powder their porcelain cheeks and bosoms for the evening soirée in the grand ballroom dressed in embroidered draperies of hand-knotted Chinese silk, grazing the backs of open-armed Bergere chairs, caramel ostrich leathered ottomans, black and white checkered settees, Carrera marble credenzas, rich mahogany armoires, herringbone oak wood parquet floors that shine from an over-waxed meditation on a bejeweled tortoise that carries the weight of a sinner’s guilt from a forbidden kiss behind the awkward greenish grey boulder sitting cold and stern in a modernized forest littered with weathered prostitutes in white mink fur knee-length coats covering their soiled laced slips and sagging garters that resemble the worn out leashes tugging the choked necks of black curled Standard Poodles that belong to Monsieur & Madame Henry de Paris-Versailles, patrons of Verbeau, Marquis Soule, Roland Daphne, and other painters of the Ombre School that relish in the everyday malaise of an irritated smoky eye or cracked yellow tooth deadened by excessive wine, pipes, sweets and snarling in a piano bar seething with the intense oppression of a passing thunder storm that aggravates the bartender, provoking bulging veins from his generously sized forehead, sweating with an abundance of baby tears, screaming for her mother’s malted milk scented by potent gardenia perfume and salted, accumulated body odor that could drive any maddened sailor wild with desire, lusting after a three hundred and sixty four day voyage over international seas, forgotten landscapes of coconut palms, birds of paradise, fuchsia bougainvillea, drooling springs, swishing waterfalls, turning rivers, boiling geysers, and refugee slaves seeking the shelter of gypsy families huddled under basket-woven tents that break the setting sun into golden prisms of tender strips of healing scars from centuries past battles of victorious Vikings with clanking, charming armored breast plates severing ripe, matured forearms that lead to ogre hands that grip sanguine swords, slashing the dreams of yesterday and threatening the birth of tomorrow.
N.F. 11/7/11
