what air-conditioned heart is this here where mothers meet and ports sing crusted sugarsongs where I remember the synthesized forget-me-nots kissed by lemons in chemical yellow
and blasphemous portraits seem to cry with tears light as baby's breath against the heavy frescos in the matchstick cathedrals lined with crumbling gouda and bitter wine?
stags wear ruined antlers and crown the hillside above the gilded city as it slides into the sea to the echo of violins in a sprightly sigh and then your laugh
(plaster-of-Paris is as beautiful as blood diamonds)