Damn ball suspended in the celestial void,

Painted like a marble,

Colored in opaque olive,

Pigments so divine that would arouse even the oldest peacock,

pleased at such rebirth of his loins and re-colorization of his eyes.

A marble, the cradle of my grandfather,

The womb of some distant grandson.

O, I throw to you a blue rose,

So that you, the static between son and the father, may kiss it with voraciousness and bite it's sad petals.

So that you may finally prove! Prove the existence of your lips to the Earth!

So that you may show to the soil the fragmented texture of your tongue.

So much have you aged, that your lips have dried! They are arid now, and hard as chalk.

Your lips miss the beautiful moisture of another mouth,

another neck, another breast, another body that may curl around

The solitary heat of yourself laying like a sea star in a bottomless pit.

— Sleep naked. At the very least let your bed embrace you

And that your pillows get to stage,

The poor imitation

Of a young couple

Making love.

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