Sunday's poem-ish

when you've got a splinter in your malediction
a flowerpot can freely grow
& thorns will prickle forth like freckles
on May's dying day.
Her breezes produce the most precious of death-rattles.

Her eyes are a pair of paintings painting nothing in particular.
Blood is round like peppercorns
& the lemons are falling from the sky like thunder rolling down.
Rumbles waterfall over mountains
the sound is a gray wash of heavy contempt
possessive & unencumbered
our electric tongues make the most of a stormy night.
The circuits come up short & must be repeated
The circuits come up short & must be repeated

Our mouths are getting tattooed with
a citrus needle
you are a ruby grapefruit in my palm
face reddening like the center of an Ahi steak
When I told you about the fruits
your face fell in like a house of cards
& my liver braced for impact.

I'd like to devour your feelings
—but first you must boil them from their exoskeletons
& use a nutcracker to expose their solidified bodies

Bet you never thought it would happen like this
after we dredged the red bodies from below.
Your dreams are a thing without the softness of an underbelly;
smiling with a misanthropic rind
the words become a backwards chain reaction.
I can't wait for May when our bodies are back in October
(coursing through every costume).
& my wisdom teeth are coming in like thunder,
I am hooked back from romantic time travel.
Here.
I am here
open to all the paintings (even those empty of thunder)
& I am here
poised for the forked strokes of sky cracking open.