Let’s get lost,
with Chet Baker in mind…
… and wander around in fascination,
for some while….
… find ways to exchange currency of cultural evolution,
as we pound the pavements of fair Londinium!
as finery of footfall,
with the silken swagger of Paul Smith suit-wearers,
as we talk.
Why not pause and reflect, on Maddox Street…
… how hyperrealism makes you look, on repeat,
in doubt of your own human status…
… How the naïve maturity of an Opie line,
defines the crisp colour-work,
… how staggered prisms recline.
What make you of the Moebius “Marilyn”?
No trademark bubble,
no pink, to blush in…
just the merest hint of matte rouge,
and roll-neck, en noir…
… but piercing eyes, blue…
… crystalline, stinging, compelling,
up close and afar,
that seize you with X-Ray precision…
Let’s go to Bel Air…
let’s make that decision to breathe in the truth of Pétrus,
cast in bronze,
with karate-chop curvature…
… How the medium moves to defy
any ocular sensor.
¡Si, pero fabuloso…
… yo quiero comprarlo, por favor!
Before we can process,
let’s accept invites to descend into ordered confusion.
Where walled icons rally with sculptural volleys…
and we play bystanders,
with ground passes,
game for meandering…
… Letting the artistry set matching doubles,
of musculature mapped-out in marble…
Marvel at mirrored maquettes, in full bloom…
… at the gentle dichotomy,
carving the room with uncovered,
and still, under wraps…
Let us project that the next private viewing
maybe influence a shrug….
Let’s hit the road again,
laugh and unload our collated refrain
and transpose its profundity,
let it all happen,
as we, two, get lost in a hug.
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