“Who”, I mused, “brushes, with their cracked ugly lips, her oh so long and elegant neck now? Where Pretty Girl, daughter who was not, is not, and never is to be? When? Who? The Beast, the Coagulation….”
Pretty Girl, you who exudes the musky
scents of herbal soaps or perfumes, two silver serpents are entwined, they slip
and slide, serpentine together, anointed as they both are in green oozing Sargasso
seas of musky scented herbal perfumes, lotions and ointments, but whatever; the
glory is not mine, though mine has become gloriously hard. She looks slowly
towards me, our glances cross, and then, she is gone. Oh, the vanity of
coincidence, the vanity of self-importance! Somewhere evaporates my fading
memory of those musky scents of herbal soaps lotions and ointments I recalled
far better in bygone times.
Thrice upon a time, or many more
countless times beyond that scene rests abandoned, on the crest of a white sand
dune, no coordinates given, an earthenware jar, its earthy tones, its shapely
breast an invitation difficult to disregard. Every grain of sand in this dune,
every grain of sand in this desert, though each and every one glitters to
beckon on the watcher to touch, each and every one is as barren as a plethora
of flawless diamond clear dreams, for touch and they are gone back to wretched grains of
gritty sand.
A forlorn artist, me, delicately strokes
the earthenware jar, cleans its gritty lip with his finger then, quite
innocently, quite stupidly, lifts the opening up to his eye as if there were
something to be seen in the absolute darkness inside. He, me, I play this
childish theatre only to be instantly blinded by a plethora of flawless diamond clear nightmares
glittering with beauty and lust gone back to miserable grains of sand. Sand in
his eye, no hope, just miserable gritty grains of sand, for long gone are the musky
scents of herbal soaps, perfumes, lotions and ointments that once upon a time
poured into Pandora’s palm and once upon a time must have caressed sweet
Pandora’s flesh.
Someone, me, stalks a fading memory of
musky scents of herbal soaps, lotions and ointments for I am barely eloquent
enough or barely able to paint brilliantly enough to mitigate Pandora’s void.
“But worse!” Mused I, “Who are, these very days, who is pouring musky scented lotions and ointments from Pandora’s very own amphora into their palms to oil sweet Pandora’s flesh? Where Pandora? When?”
Painting
entitled “PANDORA’S AMPHORA (LOTIONS AND OINTMENTS)”, ©David F. Brandon 2013.
