Two bit I'm working on in Hekaton

Old Painter

A forest is green, the night is black, water is blue.
The bars and handles are silver, the seats ultimately orange
like every train in this city. His hoodie is red,
face darkened and imperceptible from this angle,
just an opening in red. The floor is a greenish-gray,
a color profile that likely went through hundreds
of tests and applications before it was applied.
The temperature is videogame-desert tan,
some fixtures filtered in orange, some in yellow,
some clear. This thing is purpling, rich, regal,
brioche, buttermilk.
REVERSE REVERSE.
The night is Warp Records.
The water is a grill reading “HATERS.” The trees
are maximalist turtle shells sculpted by the
Super Mario Brothers team in garnet and tanzanite
moving at high speed under horses. The stars are
an Auslese Riesling. The floor is a composite plastic
made from fog and JC Penney’s catalogs. The temperature
is Lacan. His hoodie is stunna shades made from
melted down fragments of Elton John’s platforms,
face a slice of chicken pot pumpkin pie that forgets
the words to “Autumn Leaves.” The bars, rosaries
in tiger’s eye with a icon of two cigars crossed
in a glass of scotch, the seats tungsten rods,
the thing kinetic, sweating Queen Anne cherries.

Throw Me at the Wall, I Am Velcro-Prophecy

Ripped to skivvies, I’m laid on the bed,
body spinning in the room like some fly
rims pulled to a stop. Chi is in the bathroom,
powdering nose, no, washing face, no,
peeing, no, bathrooming. My pelvis
is royal blue and orange, spotted with white,
morphing like a screensaver. I’m shuffling
latex like a cardshark, fingers dancing
the prophylactical, soothsaying in
the lie of the wrappers, auguring contraception
like Consumer Reports the Baptist. The
Acockalypse. Esclitology. Sing the body
prophetic, let us stick together like noodles
cast for cleromancy, let’s scry the future
in the reflections of this bottle of lube.