Weren’t you expecting fireworks?
Under the galaxy, unspiral the citrus peel
flowering blood orange fruit’s
segmented slices carry seeds of life.
Take a bite and savor the juice
and pulp stuck to your face.
Beneath your porous surface
you’re burning because fire works,
because you are full of juice.
So you anxiously shed your peel
like a snake to unhand life
to little deaths that bear little fruits.
But what’s the point to it if even the fruit
of the trees the seed fruits face
the pit? There’s no after-life,
only the perennial quest for fire. Work.
Squeeze life and die peeled.
Whatever a sun will always sing is juice!
A sweet confluence of juices
flux your biting face. Succulent fruit.
Cracked peaches plucking banana peels
under lunar glare. Facing
the sky, one twilight, fireworks
began the carnival of half-life.
Death is ripe in blooming life.
Come and sea: the fertility of juice
craving black powder fireworks–
ash crucible of volcanic fruit–
constellates the mountain faces’
desperate disconsolate appeals.
Stickly chthonic fingers peal
away the mystory of life:
Keep out of reach of your face
syrupy saccharine juices.
There are no cores in canned fruit.
Keep children out of reach of fireworks.
Fireworks peel
fruit life
juice face.
Weren’t you expecting fireworks?
Under the galaxy, unspiral the citrus peel
flowering blood orange fruit’s
segmented slices carry seeds of life.
Take a bite and savor the juice
and pulp stuck to your face.
Beneath your porous surface
you’re burning because fire works,
because you are full of juice.
So you anxiously shed your peel
like a snake to unhand life
to little deaths that bear little fruits.
But what’s the point to it if even the fruit
of the trees the seed fruits face
the pit? There’s no after-life,
only the perennial quest for fire. Work.
Squeeze life and die peeled.
Whatever a sun will always sing is juice!
A sweet confluence of juices
flux your biting face. Succulent fruit.
Cracked peaches plucking banana peels
under lunar glare. Facing
the sky, one twilight, fireworks
began the carnival of half-life.
Death is ripe in blooming life.
Come and sea: the fertility of juice
craving black powder fireworks–
ash crucible of volcanic fruit–
constellates the mountain faces’
desperate disconsolate appeals.
Stickly chthonic fingers peal
away the mystory of life:
Keep out of reach of your face
syrupy saccharine juices.
There are no cores in canned fruit.
Keep children out of reach of fireworks.
Fireworks peel
fruit life
juice face.
Posted 11 months ago Notes
