The last time I visited New York City, I stayed in a haunted house where phantoms from decades of sensual indulgence had accumulated like dust clinging to the overelaborate furniture. Speaking in whispers, empty mirrors hungered after the searing release of rivers on fire. A gilded dragon gloated over his treasure, kaleidoscopic explosions, colors refracted, passions spent. Fleeting moments of drunken dalliance, echoed down the late night streets of Chelsea.
Sharp as a razor, his poise is of negligent admiration. But it is not the statue he is thinking of, he knows himself to be more alluring. Light as a feather, he perches on the edge of elegance leaving a faint mark in time. Pencil and ink are fading, but not before the peacock tells us all.
His supple body twists in a languid gesture of youthful extravagance, confident of his anticipated conquest. A fallen leaf coyly reminds me of his barely hidden intent. The sheen of polished bronze has the patina of forest loam. I can almost smell musky leaves feeding buried seed. Lost in wilderness, no witnesses to clothe desire, beautiful boy come with me.
Outside glass doors, on a narrow balcony, the visceral stare of a mustachioed grandee compels my attention – daring me to stroke his whiskers. His strapping chest strains against the pinch of tight buttons; unfurling lapels fill with the heat of his body, a triumph of naked dancers upholds his pride.
La Reine is draped in flowing red velvet and soft white ermine fur, her cinched bodice encrusted with diamonds, her complexion is flushed with the strain of lordly haughtier. In a shower of roses, her reign extends only to a curling boarder of golden waves. Giggling cherubs remind us that she is the source of plenty, the pleasure of Kings.