Intimacy, take 2

Twelve times new moon has risen in the East, // twelve months have fallen from the calendar like leaves, // since I’ve set out to emulate with love // the Spartan prose of maitre de Maistre. // My work I judge a remarkable success: // my language here has been forceful and direct, // and, just like the prose of the Neapolitan man, // it’s couched in brave terms // thoughts by and large of limited appeal.

Now I am tired of writing prose// in poor imitation of ordinary speech. // Why clothe plain thoughts in equally plain words? // Wherein lies the interest in ordinary speech? // Let’s let the language be fun to read // at least if the thoughts themselves are but grey mice.

Well then, here goes my first attempt: //

The Intimacy was a disappointment, // a disappointment bound to happen since // it often happens in pursuit of art // that by rifling round it, one stabs himself // upon a work of premeditated dreck. // (This happens less so – thankfully – in film // than in other forms of art wherein // ugliness and unhealth have long since passed // for intellectuàl depth).

The central cònceit of this failing film // had had its promise: // anonym’s lovers who tryst once a week // but do not speak a word only make love // – and tragic disappointment which thereupon strikes // when at long last they do begin to speak. // “I had imagined” they say bitterly // “that you were wiser, better, and more int’resting”. // And thus the adage “Be beautiful and do not speak” // could here be taken to be the film’s main theme: // the beauty of the physical act fast followed // by the disappointing speech // (revealing as it is of minds // fearful, angry, confused and dull). //

Except that the pure ugliness of the sex – // and its astounding brevity // (two minutes on a worn out carpet floor) // mean that it is hard to see why anyone should // have expected better in its wake. // Unless, of course, the heroes thought the sex was great; // and the director wholeheartedly shared // in this quaint view. // Which surely means only one thing: // that people’s sex lives aren’t all that great.

Therein lies surely the source of all my doubt, // the inability to comprehend // my fellow men. // They’re poor and ugly and thanks to this // find goods and pleasures more difficult to find: // than Zobenigo, your true old friend. //They thus prize more highly the more lowly things // because their better – are too hard to find.