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APRÈS-SKI,
KINKY
They
probe the taste of love, up in the alps.
A
record dips. They’ve
chosen Pilule d’Or.
An
oval gut in old depraved Hong Kong
sifts
its own aphrodisiac, shark fins.
Or
satin used-up eyes, Herr Klamm’s, in Durban,
watch
powdered rhino horn go in the glass.
And
coloured fruits reflect in glossy leaves.
But
a doll’s villa on the Jungfrau rim
is
where the European dream comes true:
a
girl of thong and an immaculate.
She
licks his chin, not everybody’s toast.
Apollo
a-gape and a new Mistinguett.
Arcane
frissons spread through their undergrowth.
They
flower into a legend of themselves.
Cinzano
Bianco with some ice and peel,
then
her marauding gear, cuissardes en cuir,
mislead
them into rites that melt the ice.
Their
icinesses weep: her nails weep for
the
breaking skin, his eye for a spiked heel,
their
hearts for fiercer laws, frankpledge of two,
(the
jackboot was defeated from the scene
when
incest of one race was the one mode)
to
cure their love of life, their tasteless tongue.
Alan
Marshfield
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