Dropping Fruit

Colorful deliriums croak their sober arias. Fat women in horned helmets. Pitted against an orchestra so tight. The nylons on her thoughts running away from the source. Tired stockings flattering the dimpled skin between her punctuation.

We say so much when we don't say anything at all. We sneeze the words out like a symptom. Because that's what they are.

The itch in my tits when alone isn't a cure. The scribble of cum on the bedspread like crayon. The raw meat of feeble drawings. All the ways there are to name the colors we hope are still there.

The bass drum in that last chug. Tuxedos of lost. In parties we call our lives. Purgatories of flesh. Salvation an abstract of skin and pores. A cluster of facts at the center of so many lies. Daring the remainder of the party to look. At the empty room. The half empty dress. That she thought she would wear. As calm as a used condom. As strict as the bookkeeping of a whore. The tick of every lover like a bomb that never goes off.

Heaven is real in every wrinkle of her lips. heaven is patient. If we are. But so is hell.