Bones, the gallery walls, lace patterns on a nightgown, freshly fallen snow, surrender. Hard light. Undoing notions of purity, your teeth, your spit, eyes wide. Soft clouds drifting, heavy with rain, suspended like diamonds behind glass. It’s a mild turbulence. It’s an ego of its own, streaming down through the spaces left between the words, the unlimited potential of a blank page. Don’t the moonlight soothe you? Don’t the moon look good? It hangs like a fish hook at sea. Robes for the ritual. Smoke curling upwards like a charmed snake, innocence. Before you are cleansed, choke down the myth.
Monarchs flying low. A shadowy crown. Van Gogh’s sunflowers on a tote bag, crows overhead. Strands of your lover’s hair coiled around your fingers. Van Gogh’s sunflowers on a graphic tee. Cowardice, success, dew on the citrus fruit. Conquest and trade routes. Van Gogh’s sunflowers on a flat screen at the stadium. Honey, mellow and swirling, from a pitcher to a plate. Springtime in the North. Ascension, arrival, a Jesus piece. Tombs for the Pharaoh. Shrines for the old Gods. Van Gogh’s sunflowers, visible from outer space. Walk with me through the haze of pollen. Walk with me shadowless at noon. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood and lord help me I chose wrong. Walk with me through the birdsong, the courtship, the fever. Walk with me to the sunken treasure. There’s no real value in real value. There’s nothing left in the mobster’s vault. There’s an actual brick road like that in Kansas. Her name is etched into the gold.
Sunsets, stoplights, embers. Ecstasy spoken through a blush. All temptation’s agonies. You, too, shall discover fire. Give it time. Passionfruit and cherries, a savage signal, nectar plumping flesh. Negotiable but permanent, a consequence, a spiral stair. Like lipstick in the imagination. Like classic cars rolling through stops, bulls on parade. Instinct guides with its easy pressure, a paint-by-numbers game, an appetite, an offering. In the old world, it was always fruits and flowers, child messiahs and the leisure class. In the old world, the boudoir curtains stayed closed. They hung the best paintings over the bed. That was back before the atom split. Everything turned candy-red after the war. The letter A, an apple in the garden. A beast in heat. An open wound. Glowing, humming. Sensuous. Meet me at the intersection of 5th and 82nd. Meet me at the intersection of primitive and modern. Meet me at the intersection of vivid and deep. Of reckless and sweet. Of warm and endless.