how the wooden lovers
cut their throats
together-

passionate puppets of love felo-de-se
a stylized fashion like
a
walking masterpiece-

hanging ashen dreams
over cardboard
orchestrations of stained
monotone skin,
wrinkles in sober countries;
crescendos of cicada dawns
through scarlet
streets-

they value each other
as instruments to cause
each other pleasure
in pains
like Baudelaire’s lovers
patior: “I suffer”-

they keep together very real
as significant as flowers-

this canvas of theatre
this temple of the dark stage
this darkness under impassioned
strings, strumming
under
a
dis-

(s/un)oriented moon-

in the end
they inevitably fall;
amputees of tenderness
in charcoal parasols
& bags
of hieratic imagery in anguish,
geisha murderers to themselves-

isolated for
the
subterranean kiss
upon the backstairs
beneath
the paper stars.

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