Gilt

Staring at statues of Buddha, gleaming of late afternoon rays,
        Staggered at thought of Danaë, I did not make any way.
        Sokushinbutsu, they called them: monks who entered mummification
                                                                                                      alive.
        Sometimes the mummies were gilt, to become living archives,

        Flashy and fleshy,
        Of asceticism, of nirvana.

        To the nirvana, coming, coming, coming, on the face.

        Fleshly guilt, aesthetic yet unnerving, is plated on me.
        Those mummies’ expressions, less of penance than the sensual,
        Peculiarly felt on their skins, numbing, in pleasing plastic glee.

        Zeus arouses sensations, between legs opening in bronze tower.

        So do tell me, Mr. Klimt;
        Whether Danaë’s karma was to become Buddha,
        Or is Buddha merely an imprint,
        To get stimulated, sin duda?