BOLOGNESE

Turned blood-orange by the sun
this earth is a cursive text
a wall bearing many tongues:

Nazinger è maiale
Black is no terror Beauty
is the only true revolt

The city as walled garden:
a flux of secret waters
and the force of argument

Dreams and grieving populate
these hazardous birth-canals:
expulsion as fiat lux

III

Grown from a single pixel
the lovers blossom for us:
his gipsy bling her tattoos

Creatures of light and delight
they ignore meanings are loose
in their punkabestia