c. Vivien Lancelotti
and it was a blurred envisioning,
the coins going straight into her semi-
detached bra, many and placed by
many hands. Some would act and others
watch. It was an ongoing match of stamina.
She waited for none. It was one and then
another. Like bugs on roses they fed on her.
Basileia was a symbol’s flesh, human, internal
organs and all that goes through them, and more…
a receiver of all the world and though there’s little
known about her, some great men were kind
enough to mention, or simply couldn’t help it:
her bosom was a sea of tiny pearls
so closely knitted they could not be felt
but shone as subtly bright as wet stone.
Forms abound. Beauty is conspicuously
omnipresent. Peoples as well as other of
nature’s features draw attention. So she
did. Part hatred part wife for instants she
burnt in a morass of judgements, half
idly, laying, numbly, she was swift. Her
scent was a pungent grimace, she did
not rely on the benedictions of others
to survive but on their trust in her lies.
Basileia, the honest courtesan, protector
of her kind, preferred the knowledge
of the moment’s rage to fear, to jive
within that mystery and to persevere.
As sounds beamed loud on her mistresses she
alone indulged in endless public secrets
resonating in the silent grip of her ruby lips.
It was German in former times, the city
in her name, a quite important trading
place, located at the Constance Lake.
The daughter of Uranus, the father figure
in the sky, his lordship mutilated, she
could be mounted to no avail but the
release of others, prisoner of the music’s
strum, circling in her red shoes ad infinitum,
Vivien Lancellotti cresceu em São Paulo e Cingapura. Hoje vive em Ibiza e escreve romance sério demais permanecendo pálida dentro de sua casa enquanto os mais equilibrados vão à praia nos fins-de-semana. - www.vivienlancellotti.com