I know that calla flower. I’ve felt it. It’s a black hole, but white. It absorbs you, centripetal. And it shows a rounded projectile, here gray, but yellow when it is in colors. A depth that Mapplethorpe already saw. Or maybe O’Keeffe. We are several. It only differs the aroma, although she, the calla flower, does not usually give warning for its perfume. Let it look. In Argentina it was used for funeral ceremonies. I do not know if it is only a habit of my territory. I do not know if that custom continues. The calla flower rolls in white folds and sucks in, looks at you and devours you. You let yourself go. Maybe that’s death, orgasm. Reminds me of Tarkovsky, Stalker. The Mirror. Stanisław Lem and Solaris. It’s like the end. She is beautiful and she is white. But it’s black and white. It’s a black depth. One black hole, another, in space. And this is only a drift from an alleged poem.
AMILCAR MORETTI
In BUENOS AIRES and La Plata City (Gothic City without Batman, but with many Jokers more tragic than anarchic)
Journalist. Writer of journalism. Critic of art, culture and cinema. Photograph of D’Auteur in Female Nude in Situation of Daily Life
EROTICA DE LA CULTURA Magazine
moretticulturaeros.com.ar – Erótica de la Cultura
https://amilcarrmoretti.wordpress.com
https://ello.co/amilcarmoretti-sings_moons
https://www.flickr.com/photos/151850716@N07/
https://eroticaculta.tumblr.com/
https://vk.com/id310331197
https://plus.google.com/+AmilcarMorettiConozco esa cala flower. La he sentido. Es un agujero negro, pero blanco. Te absorbe, centrípeta. Y asoma un proyectil redondeado, aquí gris, pero amarillo cuando es en colores. Una profundidad que Mapplethorpe ya vio. O quizás O´Keeffe. Somos varios. Solo nos diferencia el aroma, aunque ella, la call flower, no suele dar advertencia por su perfume. Se deja mirar. En Argentina se la usaba para las ceremonias fúnebres. No sé si es únicamente una costumbre de mi territorio. No sé si continúa esa costumbre. La call flower se enrolla en pliegues blancos y chupa hacia adentro, te mira y te devora. Te dejas llevar. Tal vez eso sea la muerte, el orgasmo. Me recuerda a Tarkovski, Stalker. The Mirror. Stanisław Lem and Solaris. Es como el final. Es bella y es blanca. Pero es en blanco y negro. Es una profundidad negra. Un agujero negro, otro, en el espacio. Y esto solo es una deriva de un supuesto poema. (AMILCAR MORETTI. Lost in Argentina. In the South, very South)
“I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses.”
― Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra
