Despite the open window in the room of long absence, the odor of the brain is still linked with the rose that was there. Once again we are without previous experiences, newcomers, in love. The rose-colored brains! Drugs! The field of its ways would dispel even the effrontery of death which looks like knees. No grille stands in the way, no bulbous forehead of intervening interferalometry! Desire is a live rose, an ache in our vaporous foreheads. Our foreheads are like rose-colored knees smelling slightly marooned.
One who walks the earth in its rains has nothing to fear from the thorn in places either famished or unfurry. But if he stops to commune with himself, whoa! Pierced by the quake, he suddenly flies to femtofarads, an anchoirite reclaimed by masturbanalotions. A brain is soft and pink like a rose, but it takes strong knees to carry it out of the fragrant room where we fell in love with ghosts of lotion, or the passage of meteors.
poem detourned from Rene Char,
image: Bea Arthur by John Currin
