He took the puff and powdered his narrow thighs
He lightly coloured his brows
And painted his lips
Then he placed a golden chain around his waist
And dipped his fingertips in rose water.
He slipped on bright silk stockings
Clamped them with golden bands to his hairless legs
And slid his slender feet into leather shoes.
Then he threw a dull gray cape around his naked body
Placed a round Basque cap on his narrow head with its soft blond
hair
And pulled it deep over his left painted eye.
Then he took a bottle of Chevalier d’Orsay water
Loosened the silvered stopper
And stripped off the remainds of the pales powder that clung to
his light-toned ears
He poured the drops of amber-coloured numbing water between
the narrow grooves of the wide cape.
Then he took an amethyst between his slender fingers
And left the house.
Only a few badly painted boys lingered on the Piazza Fontamorosa,
who crept away at his sight
The whores screamed like the turkeys of the old Marchesa Spilla
Yet he stepped lightly across the dark square
And turned, swaying his hips lightly, onto the Roman road
Before the Magini bar sat a few pale boys who brushed against
each other and laughed softly
He took a gin quietly
Mixed it with a hard drop of marsala
And slowly sipped the fragrant drink
He gave a friendly nod and went, without paying, to the Piazza
Of the theatre of Carlo Felice
And parting his cape
He stood naked in the square
And smiling, showed his narrow painted thighs
An outcry went through the streets
People poured out of the alleys
And formed a circle of tumbling bodies
A troupe of singing fascists neared on the busy September 20
Street
Who at the sight of the narrow boy’s body
Suddenly broke up
And whimpering, got down on their knees
An altar boy rushed out of the Church of San Lorenzo
Streaming tears about the naked one’s feet
The women hid their breasts
And flailed their thighs
A blind panhandler fumbled and screamed
The men bellowed and kneeled forward
And fell in the same way, moaning, to the ground
Only the wicked man stood smiling in the crowd
He wore a tight dark coat
And large black glasses
He had powdered his face pale
And his bold eyes were blue rimmed
His large, red-painted mouth shone like a ruby
The naked man fumbled about his powdered thighs in fear
And tore off his gold chain
The wicked man rose laughing over the bodies of the crowd
And slowly came near the shivering naked man
A groan went through the crowd
The altar boy crawled shyly to the side
And the blind man sank moaning with him
The wicked man went quietly to the naked man
Put his thin gold-powdered fingertips around the hips
And kissed his navel
The paint on his red mouth stuck to the body of the naked man
And shone like the glaring sun of midnight
Confused by the scorching beams
The gasping crowd fearfully drew back
And disappeared into the narrow alleys
The wicked man took the slender neck of the shivering naked
man
And strangled him with his thin fingers, still smiling
The naked man dropped the amethyst
And made a slight noise
The powder trickled off his twitching body
And the brilliance of his eyes went out
The profligate strangled him with precise accuracy
And cut the narrow head off, with a fine slice, from the still
twitching body
And lightly powdered the bleeding wound
Then he took the painted head of the naked man back home
Placed it in a glass baroque window
And sank to his knees
This poem comes from Die Tänze des Lasters, des Grauens und der Ekstase (Dances of Vice, Horror and Ecstasy) by Anita Berber and Sebastian Droste. This particular poem is by Droste and displays a rather interesting obsession with powder and thighs.
I think that this poem may have become a little lost in translation, although I suspect that even in German this isn’t the best piece of writing. It feels like a first draft, the interesting idea moment, but it’s a negative that no-one bothered to develop. Shame really because there’s something wonderful in the image of that gold chain around the boy’s waist.
Unfortunately I have no real suitable image to go with this poem, so instead I have opted for a semi-naked, jewellery adorned image of Droste himself from Algol.
The poem itself is available in this gorgeous reprint of Die Tänze des Lasters, des Grauens und der Ekstase from Side Real Press.
Writing, Essays and Reviews By A.E. Pearsall 