Читать книгу The Lost Diaries - Craig Brown, Craig Brown - Страница 18

What are you that makes me feel thus? Are you thus what makes me feel that? Feel me thus that you makes what are?

You are my winged Pegasus, my hirsute daffodil, my sea urchin of song, my orang-utan pirouetting on a high wire, my banana unpeeled, my mango spurting vertiginous aspidistras over the umbrous concavities of Sappho’s juts and nooks. You affect me as a young gazelle affects the mountain over which it lollops, dollops and, er, sollops –oh, bollops.

I close my beautiful brown deep brown soft brown eyes. My lips like smoked salmon wrapped in cream cheese parcels with a sprig of fennel, moist, urgent, costly but on special offer, meet your lips, as fresh and nutritious as the morning’s cod.

My tongue laps your lips; your lips are lapped, and, lapping lips lip lappingly like lollipops over lipped laps slapped slippingly. Your mouth opens and closes, blowing and sucking, sucking and blowing as my hands wreathe your gills in luscious circles of contentment.

Your gills? Wreathe your gills? I open my eyes. My God! It is not you at all but the goldfish I am kissing. That which I am kissing is the goldfish!

JEANETTE WINTERSON