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.