The Palace of the Cinema / The Palace Cinema by Nestor Perlongher - Composite
- Author: Adam Floyd Aug 24, 2017,
Aug 24, 2017, 6:11
Poem by Nestor Perlongher. There is something bridal in that smell
or cluster of calcined balls
by a light that is draped
> between the dunes of the cheeks
the milky cairel of the dark circles that scatter the flutters
towards the smell of the bathroom. To the paradise of the smell, that pringa
the screens where the indifferent ribbons shine
marine and nuptial wars.
The sting of the flannel
on the shoe of Bird pinto
give way to ring or stick touches of moon crescent or coldness in the twisted back
that conceals the jump
behind a hoop of smoke and baban spool Gum
from the gazebo entertained into something else.
Aleve as the bell of the star of the light illuminates them and distributes polveras de izmirna
In the saltpeter of the botamangas and in the rouge of the gauzes
they untwist the mouths
spreading a clatter of tiny swordfish trapped in the fishbowl or of manatee returned siren > To recognize them.
Aleve as the bell of the light and the illuminator dispatches them and distributes polveras of smmirna in the saltpeter of the botamangas
and in the rouge of the gauzes
scattering a dim clapping Inuto
swordfish trapped in the fishbowl
or manatee returned siren
to recognize them.
But just caught them silver
be done rayon and sleepwalkers. > Chains to iron fences to recover the shadow or the backwater
the body spilled as yedra
the emery basins, the rubber that floats in the dome
where they comb, noodles or eel, the pubis with a sieve of moisture.
On an American night.THE PALACE CINEMA
There is something nuptial in that smell or raceme of balls calcined by a light that drapes
down the dunes of the cheeks
milkwet teardrops from bleary eyes
festooning the spaced-out junkies
on the way to the bathroom's smell, to a paradise of smell, how it scums up
the screens where the film
indifferent glistens in marine wars, nuptial.
The foreground of this rubbing on the lipsticked pansy's sho \ gives rise to the annula or slaps gentle rays
of the growing moon or from frigidity
in the arched backing
that fakes the leap
through the ring of smoke
shoots shoots of slime
that grease slippery the gaze
of the watcher on the lookout for something else.
Treacherous like the bell of light
that the projector shines sharp
and scatters hashish powder in the dried salt of the Bellbottoms
and the rouge of the veils
that unloose the mouths
scatterin g libertine clickety little kisses of swordfish trapped in a fishbowl
or a manatee turned siren mermaid
to be seen and known.
But the bare turn of silver
degrades rayon And sleepwalkers
chain together wrought iron gates
to recover the shadow or shelter of the body overflowing like ivy
washtub of emery, the rubber that floats in the toilet
where they comb, seaweed-lush or eel-thin, the pubis with a sifting of moisture.
And the sex of the bitches
humping grabbing lascivious
at the tibias of everyone that pants
to rob them of the lamé that licks the canvas of the sailor who smoking
gazes at the screen
where eyes pass over another film and looking at the other hand
mixing up legs the fleshy
eye, that curls leafy into verbiage,
screws or strips names from the queer
in a day for night, an American night.