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CITTA VIOLENTA

Thursday, November 04, 2004




...vast and empty erotic zones to gaze over
                                            Potente readily lambasts rumours
concerning movement. High precision quartz
                 movement, with antirelflex coating
                 and sapphire crystal and bright diamonds.

She has the skin of a child soldier. Young vintage.
Plum wine and catfish wings. Deep saute. Simple fact:

and that's that. Constantly try to
                                                whittle away. Wonderful
a month of ultra correction and a coat of cream to rip away pores
from the top of the cheekbones to the tip of the chin and back above
water spray and Charles Worthington, a mouth of magnolia and red...

pussy bow; new cuts; Klum's legs like javelins
sink into the cerebral cortex. Dahl's big doll eyes split through the spinal cord.
A secret of raw skin, ruin, tactics.
                                                  The chicest kind of paradox
struck by a smile. Vicious teeth. White spittle.
A pool. A Bhudda, side-up. A boat to Bangkok.

*

Keeping beauty. Fine shawls.
Dragonfly detail. Other variations.
Isabeli Fontana wrapped in dark glass.
Dust bare shoulders and arms. Cellular radiance.
New multi correxion. To make you
perfect sultry. Mix of roses and peonies.
Vespers Drift Away spa treatment. A Temple spa.
Metallics. Big orbs. Pale skin.
Daphne wears a knitted dress.
Daphne on the wooden floorboards
pearls draped over abdomen; tits sharp.
A tableaux with painter; girl; shutters; white sheets;
floorboards and pearls. Net skirt. Mesh shoes.
Tunnels to Cologne. New York. Palm Beach.
Monte Carlo. Courchevel. Moscow.
Dubai. Kuwait. Convert. Shrink it
through the pages, with peers. "Agents never tell you this,"
she says, "but I would become property." Naomi Watts,
sucking stale air through her teeth. A hiss of contempt
and control. Cut

lass. "We oohed and aahed." She is currently collecting victims
along with Anne Wintour across the state of _____ :
"she wore this monochrome Chanel shift
accessorised with mules and a choker..."
              ...and she won.
Then the shift choked the mule. Then she lost
and Wintour won. "I'm 55. I don't have to fall in love."
Pay lip service. "I'm 55. I've just fallen in love."
To the rate of oyster perpetual. Ever since the day
she discovered
                       the exit, correct typface, new lipstick.
The day her bag split all inner trails over the pavement like her stomach
slit open. The day she
                                gave the world whatever she
considered its worth to be. Whatever she was worth.
And what a gift that was. Everybody said so
that's what she said. Like an unstoppable affair
it sunk. A little mystery goes a long way.

The Apache Parisiennes - a gang of female Romantics
who roamed the streets of Paris in the early 1900s.


Hair cascades over shoulders:
an all-time favorite, for Fellini and other fellas.
Sequinned clutch and diamante flower detail
too. High impact in low lighting. Succulent satin tail
too. The lapse and how it trickled. Draped
like drops of rain. Trim tummy, curt torso.
Serious. Very serious things. Just consider.

posted by oc  # 3:05 PM

Monday, November 01, 2004




Coastal Excursion.

Alone as sea mist descends in patches, then opens with a breeze, until sunlight turns hard again, hard and bright on the water. Walk across course shingle and shell fragments; a thick crust of mussels, limpets, periwinkles, whelks, cockles, scallops, oysters and razors. Scattered piles, rich in texture and colour, like a coastal souk. Scarred soles smell of seaweed and scabs and salt. The tide devours rock pools. On the shoreline: waders, turns, shorelarks, plovers. A limestone crevice leaks lizards. The sun dilates, begins to turn, and dip. Skin tingles. Evening arrives; we drink bottles of Cotes du Rhone, swallow olives, gorge on tuna steaks, sardines and sausages. Hair dries out: salt bleaches it. Skin stings a little as we empty jars of cold beer by the pool. Later on, stars burst open above us. There are no clouds. Fires are lit in the grass. Exotic cocktails mixed in the dark. Mosquitoes swarm when we run for the nets.

Monday morning at the market. Coffee cuts through the heavy haze. Buy melons and grapefruit, feta cheese and olives, a block of freshly chopped butter and home-made jam. I want local cognac in a presentation box and sausages sold by a man with an Asterix moustache. Stop to mark the exact point tiles touch sky. Tune out the crowd and track fat pigeons reinforcing nests and house martins dancing through hot air. Lost near the watches and silk underwear. Plagued by a sinister hoverfly. It is said: "I think you're going to be courted by that hoverfly for the rest of your life, until the day you kill it." Stop to stuff crayfish and crab in a cafe. The cafe has a dark interior and a beautiful barmaid with a Florentine face. I have crushed ice in a glass, choose a liquor and add it. A ceiling fan cuts shadows across the floor. Later: cycle home. Sun sears. Heat ripples the road's surface. I cycle round a roundabout the wrong way.

The beach is our territory in a matter of days. There is: a school party crabbing on the reef, shells piled like shattered Morano glass, a woven bag full of food, sunlight along waves. The sky streaked with fire; ripped up by air sea rescue. The swell picks up; yachts sail toward the shore. Waves thunder along thin tectonic plates, under hostile sky. The sun goes down. Later on, the streets are loud and lovely. Stray euros fed into pinball machines and shooting games and cash otherwise wasted wisely on a racing track, cigarettes, food, wine, and spirits. A one-armed wine-sodden gent operates a merry-go-round as Let it Bleed seeps from leaky speakers. A girl falls into a fountain and shows us nice knickers and no bra. Big blazing eyes down the street. Cars slash past. Flies hit lights. On a magazine cover: INFIDELITEE (go Adjani!) can we be serious for a second? "Well, I'm wearing shorts and drinking something I've never heard of, so..."

Night evolves: we slowly run out of cigarettes and wander home along winding roads with bugs and crickets making out in dry grass banks. In the humid night air the lamplights hum. Into new hours, and lavender, spruce, wild flowers. White stucco walls and breeze blocks and plaster and terracotta tiles all cold in the cooling AM air. Marilyn Monroe is singing. She's washing sand out of her hair. She's wrapped up in a white towel. Then a mist of perfume. Like her with the eyes: give her a gladioli for her lack of effort and its effect. Very juicy strawberries and peaches and double cream from a French farm staining teeth and lips: that's the sweetest thing to kiss. Away from swimming pools and silent towns. We dispense hours in luxury before things clarify.

posted by oc  # 11:16 AM

citta vecchio

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