The beauty of the three-holed mask
Some holes are deeper than others
If I were a betting man
Flecks of pink like discarded sprayhair

metabolize unworldly intensity
with the blasé fact that factories can and possibly should
produce pigments with a power that
lapses as the eye gets used to ANYTHING

but it’s all for the best,
because Eric and I and the tri-orifii
of the opened Trinity of raw pink mask
and our other assorted blasphemies, which we admire

we need, we require
ANYTHING
in self-defense, even if it has to be produced by anti-intellectual cash-boys;
they have different, but equally pressing, reasons

for wanting to kiss and poke
unlicensed idols
(Art)
they plan profits; we plan

a strict morality
of beauty
Love revolving
like a cash-poor nebula of pink pearl-stone