Tristan Corbière
(Me your love . . .)
Me your love? – Never! – It was all put on, an act.
For my pure-chance disguise, I’ve Harlequin to thank:
The flaking smile that was making your plaster crack,
The drop of sweat that your excellent make-up drank.
My tongue was pasty with that acrid stickiness;
Laughingly we had our share of the black mascara
Which gave your eyes a false mother-of-pearl aura,
And your albino lashes a thistly prickliness.
Like your cheroots, I’ve smudged your rosy lips’ lipstick
By foolishly licking off its red-currant slick
But your mouth is still laughing – it has never bled.
The penalty for kissing on stage is a pound per kiss . . .
Put your face back on, doll yourself up, brazen Miss
Jezebel, I tell you candidly, I loved that red.
Translated by Christopher Pilling
Page(s) 126-127
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