These black mangoes glisten like plumb plums; they are sticky, tepid lips; they are nocturnes turning white stars black as piano keys.

Lustrous Marilyn Monroe sexpot is inverted; made into a fleshly stardom not of the zodiac; and, then, magically turned into Southern Gothic velvet as dark as crows.

The silken spirit crows are then conjured mystically into gauzy flowers and these iridescent flowers are slicked in a dripping, succulent gilty-blonde once more.

Their florid embers glower with lush undertones, like holograms. Purple petals spread out like tentacles in the tacky, honeyed air. Rainbow magnolias breathe breath as cloying as Cupid’s sweat.

Tropical blue ivy climbs a staircase of black angel wings, and lightning snaps the golden bowstring of the Tropic of Cancer.

Everything goes dark inside of this magical wardrobe. Every color turns black in this mystic forest.

The stars stand out in the void like Arabic scrawled on the air; like a magi’s breath crystallizing into a chandelier of levitating ice.

The stars are looking for you, their gas lamps burning. They are waiting for syzygic soul-photosynthesis to reveal a tablet of illuminated cuneiform within you:

From nothing, suddenly the nakedness of everything in a moment of koan.


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