Black Sex

Black sex sings like a siren against my white sheets.
What quilted questions can I answer,
With my tongue lodged in your pink lips,
While the sadomasochistic sunlight slinks slowly
Through blue blinds?

A Dream of Color

The world’s rich colors are unobtainable,

like love from the mother of indifference.

I long for electric blue,

sweet pink,

royal purple.


My terrible snow covers my table,

the bed.

Although the documentary on TV blares art black and white,

the sound is muted.


A world of color is rich,

is all I need in this fog as heavy as malevolence.

What I need is a glass of hot pink,

an elixir of glowing purple,

a tincture of pool blue,

languid and electric.

My atrocious capsules of snow lay beside my ginger ale

on my bedside table

while a documentary on contemporary

art stabs me in shades of black and white,

Sound muted.


Color is called back

only on loan from light

this whole time.

How will I know my house

without its yellow coat,

my friend without her green soul?


The houses and souls are still there,

Sure. Just the pigment is gone.

But now we must converse

with ourselves, ask our feet

Who are you and what do you want?

Because what we are left with is conversation,

Though most have trashed their memory of speech.