When the juice is flowing
his eyes sluice my body
baleful butterflies ravage
the pith in my stomach,
spewing primary patterns
of behavioural programming.

Phantom Fibonacci flowers
stripped of siren petals
describe a spiral of violence,
a vacuum to swallow his pride.

His mouth wriggles between the lines
and I negotiate his smile
praying for the stigma to evaporate
before his broadcast hits the air.

The stench of decaying fruit
saturates his futile imagination
with sublimated premonitions
of spring and fall; in the hiatus
between his exhalation
and my expiration, I fight
to live another day.

09/30/2006

Posted on 09/30/2006
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