Your turn, Kandinsky

you wear cruelty like a color
a thick butter of it just hovers
on the twists and the lines
of your rigid form. It dines
on girls using forks twisted at right angles.

but don't misunderstand me, love
i sorted the science of it above
the restaurant, in the attic, remember?
through pasta with bloody red marinara embers
i told you i was leaving to Argentina.

two things happened right there, right then:
a swig of that shit wine thatd put some men
to shame and indifference coloring your face
at a soldier's march, a condemned rebel's pace
and you requested a leather wallet, "they cure well there."

and that was that until it wasnt
when later you whispered we mustnt
make too much noise as you laid me across
your cool sheets the color of straws
and your baby blues were murky and oily.

oily with greasy apathy that shimmered on top
of you and your skin until it seemed to drop
off your lashes onto your square solid wrists
and THEN then then then i tasted the twist
of how you, you swirl, you feel in colors.

how crimson is every single shade of red but
and titian a mangy magnificent mutt
of it all! all! all! except that sunniness
which it can't take under its wide hoop dress
like the rest of its grandchildren colors.