Читать книгу The Poetry of Frank O'Hara - Frank O’Hara - Страница 22

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Actors with their variety of voices

and nuns, those arech campaign-managers,

were pacing the campo in contrasting colors

as Jane and I muttered a red fandango.

A cloud flung Jane's skirt in my face

and the neighborhood boys saw such sights

as mortal eyes are usually denied. Arabian day!

she clicked her rhinestone heels! vistas of lace!

Our shouting knocked over a couple of palm trees

and the gaping sky seemed to reel at our mistakes,

such purple flashing insteps and careers!

which bit with lavish envy the northern soldiers.

Then loud startling deliberation! Violet peered,

hung with silver trinkets, from an adobe slit,

escorted by a famished movie star, beau ideal!

crooning that dejected ballad, Anne the Strip.

"Give me back my mink!" our Violet cried

"and cut out the heroics! I'm Boston, remember."

Jane and I plotz! what a mysteriosabelle!

the fandango died on our lips, a wintry fan.

And all that evening eating peanut paste and onions

we chattered, sad, of films and the film industry

and how ballet is dying. And our feet ached. Violet

burst into tears first, she is always in the nick of time.