Wednesday, June 3, 2009

The Portrait of Dorian Gray

The Portrait of Dorian Gray

The portrait dominated—the decadent studio
Long tussore-silk curtains—flowing in the breeze

Basil and Lord Henry—silently stared at it
The huge portrait—producing a kind of jaded

Exquisite sensual effect—making one think of
All those pallid models—pierced like Sebastian

By the sullen murmur—of sudden arrows
Shot by sulky gangs—of butch Boss Cupids

Curling upward—in fanciful whorls
Lord Henry’s heavy—opium-tainted cigarette

A monotonous insistence—buzzing madly
Around dusty gilt edges—straggling woodbine

Lord Henry relaxed—there on the divan of
Soft Persian saddle-bags—contemplating Dorian

Smoking & feeling—the swiftness and motion
A nude young man—posing in a pouty mood

He could feel a stillness—getting more oppressive
A here & now feeling—like Narcissistic déjà vu

Who was this strange—young moody youth
Centered in the room—clamped to an easel?

Both Basil and Lord Henry—stared at Dorian
A full-length portrait—a petulant young man

A youth of extraordinary—personal beauty
And there in front of it—the artist himself

Mystified like Lord Henry—by his own creation
A portrait seemingly immobile—and yet alive

Conveying a sense of time—and excitement
Giving rise to many—personal strange conjectures

The puzzled painter looked—at the portrait
A comely physique—skillfully mirrored in art

And yet Basil Hallward—sipping his bourbon
No smile of pleasure passed—across his face

The dim roar of London—in the background
The curtains frozen in mid-air—lingering there

He closed his eyes—placing his fingers over them
Rubbing them gently—trying to release himself

Releasing himself from—something he’d never
Painted before—something straining inside him

The painting had imprisoned—him in his brain
Like some curious dream—one couldn’t awake

Later Basil Hallward—would suddenly disappear
Nobody knew what—happened to the artist

But Lord Henry—remembered that afternoon
How troubled Basil was—by something strange

How the light summer wind—agitated the
Trees in the garden—disturbing the evening

Thru the open door—a heavy scent of lilac
The more delicate perfume—of pink hawthorn

Sitting there—in Basil’s airy studio
Lord Henry Wotton—smoking his cigarette

The light catching—the honey-sweet gleam
And cream-colored skin—of Dorian Gray

Tremulous branches—overburdened with

Young male beauty—too flamelike too bright

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