Merry Christmas – a poem from Florence


“Make flesh!” said the Holy Squid – a primordial spaceship pinging in the fleur-de-lys stars of a lapis lazuli sky.

“Jesus in a bathtub of naked nymphs!
Another of these babies?” replied Mary, tit flapping through a slit in her T-shirt which read:

‘These are what got me into this mess in the first place!’

Around her, a coven of flashing cherubs, wearing winged manacles,
All whispering scritti letterari:

Antonini is so Prada
Prada is so pasta
Fellini so Ferragamo
Ferragamo fettucine
Gimme a Missoni miracle in a Dolce Gabana cabana – it’s Christmas
I want three Valentino-bearing valets in wiseman Armani armbands.

Dreamers and dissenters, dancing with Alberta Ferreti’ angels in the gardens of Boboli

Distant sirens, like rising Mercury, hailing a procession of fash-mag-slag marble gods and golden women

Of Bacchus the fool in his halo of grapes

Of majolica icons and bodacious frescoes of men winning, women standing aside, holding back bambinos from bloodshed

Watched by papal Gucci overlords from ornate windows on Vecchio Square

N’er a tear of post-rumpus depression shed to extinguish bonfires of vanities

Just freewheeling Cavalli-swishing diavoli denying their use of bruise-eyed heroes and black-eyed victims as coal towards the branded Medici apartheid experience

A void of handbags and shoes and cocaine Miami mafia magic
Of more, of more, of more Moschino

We give you black irises
A low-slung sun
Fruit salad sherbet renaissance skies

The misty winter air, over terracotta rooftops and acetate-layers of
silhouette spires and dusty domes,
Of great castle towers holding the hills.

Cashmere shopkeepers beautifully draping proud velvets in the valley city, of Vecchio Bridge jewelled memories, of garlic lain over slain bread in eden-woven, olive-wood boxes of porchini voluptuous, and Umbrian oranges, ochre apples and tall Tuscan greens.

And a wreath of butterflies.

Kirsty Allison 2014

Kirsty and Alex had the pleasure of staying at the Palazzo Magnani Feroni from December 15-19th 2014. Only telling you because it’s gorg. This was my first visit to Florence – since studying art, I’ve longed to flip my head back like Pez. This poem is based on my notes. X




















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