Sunday, May 18, 2008

Strange Fruit.

I'm dreaming fevers and fanciful
fantastics and everything is red
for blood and green for money
and blue - my fucking brains
out - for the terror I hold of
the deep blue sea.
So I stick close
to the trees.

Here.

I am not terrified
to be alone in these woods,
I am fearful
only of the riddles
which hang on each branch
and stink of over ripe
of too late
of never known
they've grown
brown and yellow and soft
in the wait.

I pick them one by one
and eat the sallow flesh
of hope, and the core of each reads:

Are you the sea
or the creatures that slide
without effort under my feet
when I am gasping for breath
on the surface?

Are you the stars
or the light that shines
through the tiny holes in the
night?

Are you the dirt beneath my feet
or the loving touch and life giving
mother?

Are you the past
that I should run from,
or the future
I should fight for?

I look further down the orchard
and see these woods last forever
-
-
-

but I know you're in there somewhere,
I can smell the fire.

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