I:

the smooth polish
of     red   and brown and        ochre
              inexperienced lush  hues
     of a   great orange  wide-armed  
                             autumn;
- not quite managing to       melt
                                    subtly
                   
                    into
the unforgiving background
taut    and smooth

like the sound.

II.

his smiles   are a

                   shape,
just like  any other      but  his

curl   and multiply
                      and    change colour       so
if you   stood  among them
you would        be
                  drenched;
in the rich   heavy          hues
      of oils
            slick upon the    canvas
sweet       and
            heavy.

the carmine rust and   jade
green   livid

upon   the metaphorical portrait
of

the    man
with

the    trumpet.

III;
his words        are

spoken by a voice;     no  less
and

       his laughter     generated

by a vibrating membrane.
                           nonetheless
it is strung with    gold
                            
                                 no
                                     less
in the laughable   earnestness

of his humour.

; pitched upon a string   taut

with the nasal  vibrations      from  a
normal  functioning       body a
collection of  cells operated    by
                                         brain matter
and nervous  chains of communication       stringing
                                                              down

his back and   racing     to all extremities and
        nervous endings  nevertheless              I
hear
           the tiny  beads    rattling back and forth  
upon    this  string  like

the golden drip    of maple syrup  in p  e rfect  
                                                                      juxtaposition
       with   the leprechaun  gold of
                salted butter.

4.  and we stood around    making shapes with our mouths.

so that    I did not  know
    what to  say.
his absence
leaves          streaks of distaste   in oil leaks
  down my   neck         absorbed into the    intestines
for    me
     to  mull over.
         
           his presence    invokes  
     spirals    of   butterflies             blue-black-wh i t e
a n d
                 c
           a
            
             r
                m
                       i
                     n
                  e
                   down
                             the well-trod  forest path.

and scorn the sunshine    which
          lights their   backs   with the
    
     brilliant gloss  of parquet    
            and the dark wood  eyelets
                     on
       their  wings       suddenly            leap

out with    a startling  iridescence
sudden smug shiver of   velvet

retreating   with
               
           alarming  certainty
         into      my mouth and   
  blinded eyes     
                                    and

even the soft thud    of  wingbeats
                 fade;
as         they beat
        out my  existence.

Fifth-


Sounds   should  be
    made  of shrieks   long-sharp --

            bright-orange-\shouts sleek soft   
                                                   in solitude,
green-- knife-edges cuts filled with vividred  blood-
-
                    --like idle reputationswith sweetvivacity screaming
like      nailsonachalkboard shreds  of paper  andflesh
too  fast pullingscratchingmewl i ng      and

indigo    to that effect                   where we
pull,    like
                                     emotionsofwineandsorrow
                                     think tomo r r o w     w i l l
t
     a
        k
       e
     
  
  f
        l
     i
  g
      h
     t

     like  all relaxed conversations and unspokenwords thoughts
twanging of
                   tensionunreleased    and
longvivacious streaks   of aqua    drops of vinegar
and  unshed blood

sound;      Music
                  should  be like  

                                sweet-andsalty  eel sauce
                      onmytongue

should be
                   abrasions of lime.  on my tongue



6th=

the understatement   underlining
          the sweep of his hand.

A movement to set   off
        the   vast
    infinities        of opal

set in  a universe
set  in  a patch of

     dark;
set in      an ir r e g ularity
set    in white
                       on close inspection
set  in  satin and orangeyellow
set       in
safe     blue

again;


to settle   back  to
his arm.
                  he     
                    sits
               he stands  he
slouches curlsup  lies down crosses his  legs
                                                     arms
the line of his neck
        curving artistry   in his back
      
     a new line of  thought in
           every fold in his clothing.

the spring of muscle
    lie in contrast
                           with the curl
  of relaxation-
the beckon        of barely listenable harmonies
all
I ever heard.  straining   against

the whinny of     the solo
harmonized  to the point     where one

                    hears it not,
if one knows it not;

the horizontal line of his bow
                           as it rests in his
                                              lap.
the deceptive
            smooth sheer
                                               [the sly   whip and curl]youare beautiful! I shouted at his unhearing
movement          of it       keening                                                    back inmyhead metaphorically

against the  rasp and                                                                                 but literally
                           swirl                                                                           you are beautiful.
                            of pyrotechnics
    the dark  secret    watching I
   half-brazenly      put  into practice                  
                                                      as
                                                 I blend
                         into dull monotone.

            surely he   would not notice.

the stroke
                 of his        
                                ridiculously  unfeminine
                       large, fleshed-out
                                        strong-looking
                                       unlong    hands
particularly unsuited   to
                       the role  of beloved   stereotypically worthyofworship

on the wood   he holds carefully
                              believably  for such hands

untapered    and bereft of  all romantic delusions
                             holding onto the smooth polish of redbrownochre hues
                                                           of inexperienced wide-armed autumndays.

    Surely they are nice hands.