Academic journal article Parnassus : Poetry in Review

Elysium

Academic journal article Parnassus : Poetry in Review

Elysium

Article excerpt

You've seen his face before in every city, recurrent as the logo of a major corporation: Early Macho Destitution. The ruddy skin a different red than the rosy glow of work crews or the poppy hue of drunkards' cheeks. His is the orchid tinge of tongues and throats, as though the skin had become transparent and we saw his flesh directly, flayed. His eyes seem always to be blue, and they warn us away like sirens on a speeding ambulance as he plunges past us in the opposite direction to everything. And his hair! It is the soul's own dirt, a manifesto: I will not do anything you want me to. I will piss my pants. I will die in the gutter. Fuck your pity! As though, poor fool, that were what we'd been feeling.

We know his converse, too, though we will rarely pass her on the street: Diana Vreeland, Brooke Astor, those grandes dames caught by photographers at charity bazaars and such choice dostheir cheeks and dewlaps as violently rouged as his in shades of liver, rose, and lavender, their hair no less astonishing, every texture calculated to a tee, that it may not be touched. …

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