9 fruits
Time loiters at my gate with fruit, and fights my grip of a meaning…
right back into my laughing lilac mouth-
tooth, fang and claw I spit the pits into a bucket… it settles...
with the violence of a note in B pushing off from C back to itself on the piano keys -
Hunts the fucking mercy out of me.
Makes me taste my own heartbreak in silence.
My eyelashes contoured to the scent of my morning desires wound up in the wrinkles of my sheets…
Finding music and stories unfolding inside the mouth of my bed, stuffed with nothing but my own wreck.
And I just may find myself in an awkward bend against the morning amidst lampshades falling
as I set fire to the rain inside my head.
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