“We go from one bed to the next
in this journey,
The newborn, the afflicted,
the lover and the dreamer alike:
they arrived and they will depart by bed,
we have all arrived and we will all depart
on this train, on this boat, down this
river which is common
which is shared
by each and every death.
Love makes the earth
a bed for blooming, mired in blood.
The fullness of September, its clarity
in sheets by the skyful,
surging in white clothes, and black. -
O sea, intimidating bed,
death and life
and savage air and spray:
fish sleep deep inside you,
and the night,
In you rest
the celestial, centrifugal
ashes of dying meteors.
You throw, sea, with the life of everything
that sleeps within you,
you build up and tear down
the ever-renewed bride’s bed of dreams. -
Lightning flashes suddenly
in two eyes of pure forget-me-not
and an ivory or apple profile.
It shows you the way
to soft sheets
like bright banners, white lilies,
down which we roll
to the final embrace.
slips into bed with us
with his spotted hands
and iodine tongue.
He raises a finger
as long as a long road
showing us the shore,
the gateway to our dying pain.” -
- PABLO NERUDA, ‘Ode to the Bed’ -
GEORGE CONDO, ‘Elastic Figures’, 2010, and TOM WESSELMANN, ‘Bedroom Painting No. 44’, 1981. @levygorvy
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