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The Hiss Quarterly Vol. 5 ~ Issue 3 Ekphrasmagoria |
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 John Singer Sargent |
She Could Not Escape From This Story Even Though She Knew It Was Not True after John Singer Sargent's "Daughters of Edward Darley Boit" SOURCE I watch my sisters stand against the life size vases from Japan They lean in their proper white starched smocks. In the lightless parlor I plan my escape. I sit on the oriental rug with sagging dolly in hand. I am a small smart child. My head is spinning in the French Provincial darkness. I know Mother wants me to be A lady of a man’s house, travel the globe by his side Like she did for father. My mind is restless Tossed by thoughts of ocean liners back and forth like a cold wave against a bow. My grandfather stands by my side. I cannot hear his words The air is whipped by screeching sea gulls And the sea spray Of cold winter waters.
The marble globes of my dolly’s eyes fade
My sisters are sheep, grazing cost them-
I stay in shadows in the drawing room
It was the money or the traveling |
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I Am Not Small Like An Ant, Prays Toulouse Lautrec after Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec's "Aristide Bruant in his cabaret" Prostitutes do not want to lie with small men And stunted bones left low to the ground. I adhere to the night like any other man longing For sleek legs garter belts round skin Sweet engaged flesh like melons watery arousal flowing The orange flashing nature of frilly white undergarments and made up blue eyes, all gateways to divinity. What do I care that I am not a potentate who makes women giddy? I am a twisted deformed small man Who draws dreams with his raw wings I drink until I cannot recall my absent father the old fool. Who does not approve of cabarets. My entrepreneur friend Bruant calls his cabaret patrons-- Scoundrels prostitutes pigs-- He cannot see their faces hidden and aflame in deranged light Come into my palace the sign on his door says See Monsieur Lautrec the miniscule man He painted me with red scarf and black tall hat. He is my side show lady with hair on her chest. Or with two heads. Come into my palace Bring all your desires. Tall fathers short sons patrons time negotiates all. In my words I am the great painter of licentiousness Dangling in the scars of syphilitic hollowness. Give me a teacup in it’s emptiness I see flamboyance breathing Women with teased large hair and lavender rouged cheeks Decaying nymphs dutifully praying in dark closets Bruant in the fires of fame and rage black hat and red scarf. As I look I see a man inside laughing larger than life, An artist spinning in the air A dazzling top with a painter’s beret lost in the unforgiving wind And the forgetfulness of a mothers womb. © Elizabeth P. Glixman |
 Aristide Bruant Dans Son Cabaret |
