Jul 2011
Fools Gold
6 months long, 6 months long. Fruit. Flesh. Ripe.
6 months long, 6 months long, fall to fight or flight.
Plump and sweet, blush heat skies, light leak afternoons and sighs and teardrop kisses, crows feet laughter, mouths creased up at corners after river days and damp grass nights and cricket chorus sweat and sleep at home.
Home.
Lips in heat, sweet and salty, meet.
Dusty sunbaked skin and faulty sweet
and faulty.
Something’s faulty.
6 months long, 6 months long, fall to fight or flight.
Plump and sweet, blush heat skies, light leak afternoons and sighs and teardrop kisses, crows feet laughter, mouths creased up at corners after river days and damp grass nights and cricket chorus sweat and sleep at home.
Home.
Lips in heat, sweet and salty, meet.
Dusty sunbaked skin and faulty sweet
and faulty.
Something’s faulty.
6 months long, 6 months long. Together grown in canopies of sleep. Slumber soft, shade and dappled light a perfect painting.
Now a new branch to the tree.
A game? It’s name?
A sharp and rusting nail juts from the frame.
6 months long, 6 months gone. Falling done.
There is less sun.
It’s not a barking dog, there is no gun.
Viewed afar it looks something like fun.
He likes to pull the wings off one by one.
Now a new branch to the tree.
A game? It’s name?
A sharp and rusting nail juts from the frame.
6 months long, 6 months gone. Falling done.
There is less sun.
It’s not a barking dog, there is no gun.
Viewed afar it looks something like fun.
He likes to pull the wings off one by one.