Wednesday, June 3, 2009


They are actors. They wash lips and eyes up and down pantone shorelines and silk sheets and across regal bed frames and couches softly in and out but always slowly contracting and expanding lenses finding focus near then far. They leave beaches bare and then covered and then bare but for the skeletons of lives once lived, lives of stars and soft jelly satellites and carnival seahorses with cotton candy imprints and giggling reflections. They are comedians... telling themselves jokes about themselves to make them smile and to make cameras melt and me to spite the causality of sensuality... the price of partial intimacy. They are innocent, as god made them, bare and careless picking fruit in the garden, picking the forbidden but never feeling the fall. And I am the snake that watches, that laughs and revels in their charade of pleasure, and makes evil out of art.