Perspective.

did you see
the fronds dangling,
or my pants hanging
over the skirt of the moon,
sucking on her breasts for the last
ounce of intimacy,
of life and its sophistries?
should I kiss her now, and taste
the wine on her lips?
my wife
–  a 50-plus old vintage bouquet,
alive and itchy,
and she lives next door.

Positive.

a cicada is humming
a polyphonic motet.
it's a miracle wrought by the sun;
a serenade to some,
a threnody for others,
but nonetheless a parody
of the legends told and revered
by ignoramuses.
Samson was like Hercules
until Delilah came along.
my village has Kokumbara and Kakomboni,
legends that I wished were mere mythos,
but I was born of the KK Klan:
anything comes,
anything stays,
anything goes.

Primitive.

none of these matters,
for my pants are still hanging,
stained by the sins of
salacious peregrimagination*,
a tryst with the gods of eros
that turned sour at dawn.
the fronds are still dangling,
the last of their life
sucked from their veins.
Dracula has a lover
and she's called Desdemona
(beauty is the devil's wine)
an affair worthy to bring the gods
to trial.

Punitive.

slit my throat,
hang me on a crucifix
next to the harem,
a postern to the 70 virgins.
let Aphrodite's kisses
be my mascara and Kohl.
she bit my lips
and stained it bloody!
if life is ugly, let death be lovely,
entombed in my forbidden thoughts,
forgotten by friends,
farewelled by fronds.
I am nothing
without my clothes and coconut,
naked and naught(y?).

Provocative.

saw her took a pee…

* peregrimagination = a conflation of peregrine and imagination