The majestic blooming
of the century plant
reveals petals of pure yellow
and stained cream,
distinct pistils and stamens.
I will love you, she said,
like Freud loved the id
in its trammeled fury.
The jaws of my brain,
adrift in opaque bestiality,
question the integrity
of a Pythagorean
reclining nude.
The heel stamp of my pen
assassinates the art
of nuclear mystics.
I will love you, she said,
like Darwin loved evolution.
Things change.
In an algid moment
the final consequences
of the abominable resonance
of a soft and hairy
architecture are revealed.
Diacritical exclamations!
The ravishing comprehension
of cannibal imperialism
by a paranoid critic.
I will eat you like the peach
I eat every Sunday, she said,
in the sky black morn.
Having teased
the sensitive mimosa
in the circular greenhouse
late that afternoon,
afterward,
he would drink peppermint tea
with the ghost of morning.