He's a highly sought-after model caught up
in the spree of drugs and sex that is
the Berlin fashion scene, and she died in a car
wreck six years ago in Zurich.
It's midnight on the mesa, a dry breeze rustles
across the colorless sand, and high atop a wind-chuseled
monolith, they are two black cobras,
drenched in silver moonlight, coupling
in a furious act of forbidden cobra love.
She likes things one way and he likes them the other.
He's hungry and doesn't care where they eat,
and she keeps saying she doesn't care either,
but every restaurant he offers up, she shoots down.
She likes monogamy but he likes sleeping around.
He's bored but she keeps talking.
They're both vegetarians but are both picky
eaters and it's almost enough to drive each other crazy.
They're both the same.
They're exactly the same person.
They're in love.
They're both in love...with murder.
She's a pacifist and he's a warmonger...
until the tables turn and she becomes the
warmonger and he the pacifist...though during the turning,
on vectors bound for where the other just left,
so they pass each other and reach out into
the void, and for a few brief seconds, before
their forward inertia pulls them irrevocably
apart, they simultaneously occupy a single position.
Спасибо!