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?
The world’s rich colors are unobtainable,
like love from the mother of indifference.
I long for electric blue,
My terrible snow covers my table,
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,
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.