This cabbage,
Just an average roundness,
When turning greener then the savage forests,
Ruined my marriage at this early stage.
And now it's in a beige paper bag.
This peach,
My lover of all trinkets,
Became a gluten-tree fork,
With its ***** like a beach ball,
Came to me in a dream-like trance.
This onion,
The only window to my decomposing soul,
Unraveled its layers of tears to me in all
It's subtlety. It jumped on a subway train
Looking for fresher markets of prosperity.
Desperately, still.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 1:15 PM UTC
Oh won't you butter my squash?
Clean my seeds
Like the sins of my past
The baked passion inside
The oven racks
Racks
Racks
Stack the inner radiance
And peal me
The smooth orange paste
Will feel really zesty
Stay here on my cutting board
Send knives of kisses
Be merciless inside the sink
Blinking boiling stink
And watch as I eat your intestines
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 10:41 AM UTC
the teacups
pans
and plates
they all talk to me
i'm overcome with uncertainty
and no i'm not crazy
but silverware
appeals to
my senses
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 1:26 PM UTC