Dirty Gerty's Hurdy Gurdy


Only the poem knows what's true

Monday, March 23, 2015

Tableaux Vivants

To be where the moon is scarlet- and shadows are only the distance- between the pillars a rose erects, when nothing is unmoved, and the wind no less a tether, unwoven as my eyes; I am not consecrated. I mimic intuition. The tribulation of a dream, that cannot be disguised. That every poem I wake, wakes to be expired, I must not be outlived. To mimic beauty, I am its premise; art conflicts my imitation- its Protean withdrawal- to shift what I conserve, and without my conservation. A pyrrhic solitude; that any word condemn its absence, nothing is unreal. 
Poetry tempts what I oppose: its phenomenology cautions value- but not so much to dismiss- the value it can’t equal. To erect its observation, it must diminish me. That my fear not be its intuition- that I be less misguided- beauty disrupts its desolation, until I am expressed. 
How must my function be, the function it misgives? As if to mimic form, I mimic violation.    Death is the access of its modulation, to transpose beauty-that any value- inhibits its decay. Even to withdraw, what it must react, no premise is ideal enough not to be evoked. The driving caution of art, is not to be unreal. Truth is not a valor. The lie it can’t evict, that seminal tension, the woken relic, the hieratic occupation: that art seclude its absence, it cannot be unmade- and still, as any sacrilege- to condone what it upheaves. Art can’t equate a beauty, equal to itself. Somehow an aesthetic entropy; its design is not to be outlived, until it is recurred. A primeval torque- the twisted horsemen- unfinished but provoked, and deeper than his hand; the Magi were only sibylline, when DaVinci was withdrawn. So little transitioned to predict, his oil would infect their blood. And beauty spectatorial, to be the witness of itself. That an aesthetic concerns a ritual, it must condemn its cause. Was Margaret wan, conflicting grief, when nothing else was young? “What heart heard of, ghost guessed;” to take what is uncertain, beyond its circumstance. GoldenGrove evicts its passage- that even art is less considered- inside its formlessness. A narration provoked, to question loss, no deeper than the child. Is beauty resisted, when even grief, is the grief she can’t console?
There are no trajectories to confide. Art resolves a path, and still unfollowed, deepening its memory. To be abandoned, without neglect, as if to dream itself: were I The Galleria D’ell Academia, just past gloaming, the halls that walk without a shadow, were I the instinct they convert. When to feel the busts- of writhing marbles- a dream becomes its infancy. What night would not vacate its vow to wake the moon inside itself? When mirrors that shift as tapestries- forget to be evoked- when the walls resist their vellum? And nothing is so funerary, than to be observed?  A word suggests its echo, to mimic his approach. There is no blood to fear. The marble supplicates its basin. Nothing is translatable. The “David” can’t commit his plumage deeper than its myth. It is not to have him shift, that his body is not visceral. The parable of his hand is the hand it can’t resolve. He is equally an artist, to transition ennui; were Michelangelo’s Goliath beyond his fate, no faith would be withdrawn. 

 Were I The Galleria D’ell Academia, nothing else would speak. Even for its discrepancy, beauty is misplaced. He was not intended beyond his trail, and yet for it he is condemned. To be expressed- but incomplete- a mold confirms his absence, to resist its death. When nothing else objects its form, he cannot be evoked. Michelangelo may not have foreseen this posture: unveiled for The Palazzo della Signoria, in 1504, his “David” was the entry of its form. It is almost that the unfinished figures are the entry of his ghost. And it is not for him to approach their absence. They fall away as petals, Herodiade would lament: to consider beauty its supposition, “Si la beaute n’etait la mort…!” Even to consume his will, he can’t resist their liberty; his humanism is obscured. He emits a naivete and mastery- his ghost is crimson- his blood pearl gray; he cannot hear the quarries, that listen for his form; and yet the myth he cannot reach- as myths are made to caution faith- discerns a will he can’t approach. Art is the valor he neglects, to imitate the hero. 

Putative Piece, at present