I can taste the color of melting sunsets when I close my eyes,
raw umber fired to burnt.
If I were Anish Kapoor, I would paint it all black,
toss my precious ghosts into the perpetual midnight.
I live there, on the alluring edge of my ruins.
Desolation lusts after alligorical nightmares
and the cruel dance of drum machines.
A dark, hypnotic beat ravages my impetuouse bones,
pulsing like the reverbed ballads of broken hearts.
Those carnal rhythms, the echoes of thunder and lechery.
I ached for deeper meanings, begged for you to come.
Above me, your eyes are war memorials, risen to set aflame
the mouth of my arousal.
I want to dance naked under shooting stars, and sing;
as Whitman sang the body electric,
I want to enballad my lonely erotic poem,
but it's held captive by the dirty girl inside me.
(artwork by Zheleznyakov)