For Art Lovers Only

Monday, July 29, 2002 -
Ap�sl�min ida corbalanyrtne 'ls�o rohl'daathi�m v� nen�a iroyss�rd.

Before I end this poetry jag, let me say that every time I read this fella's journal, I leave impressed and grateful for the indefinite recompenses of human language.

~

I have received a complaint. Apparently, I am posting more poems than porn in this diary (thank you, Pif, for pointing that out. I hadn't noticed that I was screwing up ratio between high and low art.) Today's essay will be an effort to achieve balance.

Would you have guessed that when we were twelve years old, the Fiend and I were in love with the same boy? The boy was (and still is) a cool, aloof creature, who has had many lovers, if you believe all the stories told about him.

Which do you think is his best side? [1] [2] [3]

A lovely little pagan, ain't he?

Mercie sculpted his own seal-sleek David, more than four hundred years after Donatello, demonstrating a greater competency in human anatomy. But his boy doesn't have that unabashed invitation, that permissiveness, of the Donatello statue, which sez "Stare at me. Caress me with your eyes. Lick my cute little cock."

And then there is Michelangelo's David. With those huge paws. Supposedly, David's hands were modeled after Michelangelo's, and the artist called them the "hands of a killer." I call them gorgeously erotic, the most erotic parts of David's body. More erotic than his splendid ass. Even more erotic than the yummy fold of flesh between the pubic hair and the top crease of the thigh. I have dreamt about those hands. Lay those hands on me.

The Fiend, who is not a big fella (5' 10", 150 lbs.), has hands like those. Ain't I the lucky dog?

<~>
Ap�sl�min ida corbalan� 'lse nesgla ugar�-cham sa cru ogrulho bat�oltha al�mv�sde.

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