For my Brown Boy..

Can you paint a Winter landscape with
blue temples and puss and blood clot

a sex enchantress down the barberry isle,
in a lunar template, beside the lonely lake?

the occult priest can. One who prophesies
nightingales in the veins and slurp on beauty

and gaze at red kimono pinnacles
sugar dipped lips in ambiguous packs.

Black forest hunching on the shoulders
Of the red-wine woods and slit…

The priest is my man, my surrealist
Strumming the impulse and orgasm blues

Love stricken serpent, smoky path crawling
Playing the white keys of the pout keyboard

Grilling all that these bodies worth
Unison, a gamut of passion and apteryx!