those viola strings were at least a dozen. or ten million. molecules and atoms in collision. at the heat of every second. and nano strings. cadenzas on the gentleman's tote bags. and women's top hats. they have learned. with the turn of the century. that two is three. and three is two. and man is a womb. let us decorate. with the pastel of lust. this chimera of love. doomed to the premises of logical logic. and philosophy of deviance. for if the he is a she, and she is a he. the binary is lost. a third equivalence. the whorehouse at the corner. is a drizzle of dew. mystified. the smoke of sugar rain. and the craftsmanship. of the homo and the hetero-. retroactive and jargon-ed. oh look, nimble pea-coat. your green of illusion. is a palette of surrealism. for what you see. what you hear. is what you wish to see. and hear.
it has pained my breast. what if there was love? one day. our tongues collapsed. into an illusion of stars. fire drops on a broach, you wore on the cemetery of vaginas. so sexual. you squirm at the thought of saliva and manhood. your race. wrapped in an ice-pick of coquetry. you charmer of souls. this photograph of black. and caressing argentum. pricks like a trillion falsehoods. the falsehood of poets. of life. is deception, you ask, a limit on your will? is your God of ashes, a deceiver of smiles? then, you ask, give me a cello tune. and let me talk to you, Holiness of spirits. look at my brows and the symmetry of heart rings. and you, apparently. told my blood. you particle of wool. this water you breathe is music to the poor. the indolence of doves is amok on the ocean crests. this white paradox. your white is black. my black is white. what are we? who are we? show me.
the river of tulips. oh mustard wheels. this chariot of blonde violin strings is ablaze in the negritude of destiny. ablaze is man. and woman. you and i. are left with geometry.
