I. L’esquisse [d’un sourire]

I. L’esquisse [d’un sourire]

The visionary present’s Whistler nocturne’s gold-threaded pinned jersey—
Now blur sized, Malcolm and 430 King’s Road (1974-1976), pink foam rubber, SEX—
Sid Vicious dosed by his mum—Where there was pouncing for a portrait, tiny punctured holes
For fresco, for her brilliancy, who steadied a pin under her nose—Reading Helen Seferis (1955), and becoming a sensual
Diarist; but what’s more, unfastening those auburn ringlets from school—Alborne, meaning blond,
Much later to mature into the current saffron; rain damp, with a bath towel for a stole—

One thought to ring the trademarked orb of Harris Tweed, with Saturn’s diamond deluges—Jointed in the stolons
With J.G. Ballard (1930-2009), who scribed so many solariums of other worlds—Front and back gardens tilled by one who could be mistaken for a Jersey
Blacksmith—First mate, dazzling designer, former goldsmith, who mentioned blond,
The color of raw silk—Teaming up with a former tarmacker, of the menswear line; sex
Should not be a consideration for wearing pink, after Elsa Schiaparelli and Cocteau (1937)—Plugging the methane ventholes,
Titan might be colonized, but going backward to Saturn’s Vermilion Sands (1971); moonlets in the atmospheric gaps, music as the sensual

Antidote left of lifted culture—Venus Smiles (1957, 1967, 1971),  Sound and Quantum: Generative Synthesis 3—Restored; whirring sensuously,

As Westwood’s hologram (2014) communicates in sequined burlap, amazing to the uniformed congregants—They are perhaps stolen

Glances of elite outfits up there, in the auroras of the Hexagon—Diamonds are common bosses in high heels; a material’s whole

Hardness degrades upon contact with vaporous sands—Nostalgia of Mud (1984) closes, and in a short millennium, the Duomo’s pinnacle is rushed by a referent New Jersey

Outflow pipe that is Earth (2084)—Somewhere, eternal children; raptured by their screens, will wonder what was “blond”

That it had to be temporary, like dying—What is foresight, since there are no images recalled in their perfected genes; there are no unplanned reassortments of sex—

In this discorded apple lurks a trace of some improbable, ancestral stirring in a cartwheel hat of the Magus—In the former dioeciously sexed
Species, someone named Wilde, who reified Aubrey Beardsley’s face like a silver hatchet, and grass green hair (1891); so sensuous
Language was then, before we cured tuberculosis, and were infected by viruses in the macerated piglets—According to some Aryan blonds
Whose insane genius it was to destroy, whose descendants ran the banks—Play is the ultimate work, except the supplies are off-limits, only stolen—
Was it a precession of the sages from Women’s Wear Daily that individuality should be forsaken, the hole
Conserved by consumerism—No, it was Fall Winter (2013) stamped to Stravinsky, Diaghilev, and Nijinsky’s Le Sacre du Printemps, which débuted in 1913—Here, with jersey

And crêpe de Chine ankle-length capes to an asymmetric-zip bomber with pigtails—The Jersey
Half-moon rises—The Herschels’s Enceladus (1789); suggested by his son, after a giant confined in Etna, imparting its apparent blush to Saturn’s E ring, a sexpot
Jèrriaise Lillie Langtry performing her vaudeville in water plumes, revolving in a single night (32.9 hours)—Winds stirs the holed
Beams of the first revealed Lorraine Drexel statue, and instantly oxidized; precooked, like us, under a buckram of rust—Or is it a stolen

Philharmonic rising up in us, under this printed bedcover of strange maize, with its fugitives chasing the Great Bear; the map refrained so sensuously—

Following the Kindertransport (1939-1940), Frank Auerbach (b. 1931) could not complete so much as a face without these twisted, reverberant shafts—Youth’s blond

Darkens in effigy, if only on our dream-responsive pallets—The 52-Hertz whale zig-zagging the California shoreline; summoning so many lemon-treated blonds
Already cantilevered, into its depths in the last big insurance scheme—Copies in easy-care jersey,
Without a few well-placed rents, or penned with orange, purple Bird of Paradise, were spin-cycled; vanished, as the sensuous
Porcelain flower painters, into oblivion, by exceeding the weight limit on the escape craft—Art originated by sex;
Marquise de Pompadour (1721-1764)  fending off the Poissonades with commissions—So many holes
For the breath of life left to enter, by one staring motionless on the skywalk—A Teucer before Salamis in Cyprus and Carthago Nova in Spain, who finds these misguided arrows; as if by an invisible protector, become buffered meteorites, and then one fired into Achilles’s heel—Generations were no longer stolen

By war, for a slip of a girl, after George Seferis’s Helen (1995)—The import of blond, or blund is stolen cross-channel, which takes femtoseconds to complete—Two golden fish
Where hydrogen gas sinks sensuously to liquid, the samsara of sex—Yet to amplify to all
Adjacent constructions traced to this blowhole of an inland cave, with foam pleats gathered on Jersey, now one derelict earth, of a long metal helix, hollowing itself slowly into a delicate sonic core—