Saturday, August 31, 2013

Casati On The Make

Pour, a gimmick’s chandelier cure, cascaded in dangles to the floor, a waterfall of diamonds, drips of pearls, and outstretched arms draped with lazy lobster eyes, a look meant for two, or ladles perhaps scooping buried treasure, wedding-caked up over head-high dreams, necklaces spun slowly on a show rack, in cagey haunts of spear-sharp opal eyes, it’s a Do Not Dance sign on a barn door, a song stuck in your head that you don’t know the words to, and it bends duller shapes into scintillating specks, and the terrazzo glints with it, bowed in or above being out of ducks, spangled slices of curtain ripple and sway, a stare’s contrarian appeal sparks, untouched and glimmering, you’ll crack odd at an appeased curtsey while the shoots curl and spell another’s twirl-and-skip campaign, to be looked over, to blend in with walls, and the trouble with being seen is a jewel thief’s blessing, to snare a swirl of jasper and leak lapis lazuli onto the tiles, the ballroom’s gone dark and everything’s out of style, and these eyes are thinner than you’d think, to be trapped in incessancy, a victim of shimmying’s shake, to keep yourself so alone and locked up to advances, dumpster diving for feathers to decorate your hair, just spit and be fancy, eyes trained from platform to perch, and seek cut-glass smiles in a luminescent flash of this or that, what’s wearing thick and gathered as you slip expertly on the sanded-smooth hardwood floors of the past, blinded by a tinny glare of who you were, then, in the draped adlib of donning personalities like wigs, scudding low and gaudy, a coughed puff of regret that sneaks sideways, poolside perhaps, like a lost earring in a deserted coffee shop, silent, as fountains of gleaming beads bubble over the lip of it all, take a shine to fame’s chancy brush, and be built to tilt, in the knees, swiped out of town, tip and sway, and never let on that this is more or less serious than it is.