The Kiss

There is a face hidden in Klimt's the kiss. Of a more-than-slightly
dizzy girl with dulled slow eye movement. I want to watch a Ricki
Lake film. I want to watch Ricki Lake's Ice-skating film. Her hair
is gold, full of black monoliths one side and aboriginal pebble art
amoeba the other. They kiss in her brow, a female elbow arm hanging
like a tear beneath her right eye (our left). Her nose is a
purple-blue-yellow-pink sunflowers / UV / negative colour powder puff
soft toy nose. She is in turquoisy-lilac angora - a meadow of
cowbell pasture. I envisage the high lakeshore of Synder and Kerouac
and their Rupert-Pink-esque buddy's 7K mountain as being such
pasture. I suppose, beneath the meaning-of-life-heaven christmas
steps of our Bugs Bunny Opera, the amazing chariot beasts of Queen
Sabrina mulch here these same spring flora. But during daytime.
Above, in the dream, it is night. By pure lack of atmosphere alone.
Back on Klimt, there is no mouth - she is silent as the pair in her
head. Behind her a brown wall blisters and erupt in sunspots - the
patterns on the surface of her eye. This is her backdrop painted
sky. A huge western sunset sun magnified to swallow her halo whole
by telephoto lens.
Or was it a background of stars, made dusky hew by her own hair's
glaze - a sheen from her own sun? You can see a flare shoot out.
Among invisible pale blonde confetti - flaky scalp dandruff of
perfectly camouflaged gold leaf. Where is this getting us? I must
confess it all. I must remember how I got there.