There was a time when there was then.
When there was a watermelon
pink and pointy
as the sun and it was all
grapefruit and watermelon here.
In the woods.
Like I am. In the sea.
Regardless. It should be shared
that no grapefruit watermelon
can be before or could come.
That is, the pink sun. It is this grapefruit and melon.
Like a boy about to come. In France. On repeat.
Repeating, you wonder.
There is a prince who strokes the prism wondering also. And that
radiates. Grapefruit-like. Radiates a clean circle
of sea water and natural juices, piano keys, days of the week.
A pink number inside.
I am a boy in the woods. That Cadillac dropped off a dead person.
Head crushed like a watermelon. Pink and dreamy. I like
to stroke his head like a rose quartz and watch
for the stars that are telling me about the warm sun
to be found under the black birches. The bantams.
You wonder. There is a car in the woods. I load it
with quince and dead bodies. That is a job.
Sometimes
there is also persimmon and the birches put out.
Sluts, they give off invisible, metaphysical blossoms
that remind me, delicate as I am, of origami.
Tongue is like a silk worm.
Once I had sex with a blond boy. Oh.
In Japan. The grapefruity sound.
We made persimmon jelly.
The Cadillac is back again. The grill
is like a fist full of razors or like teeth
or a fistful of cherries or like dragonflies mating in lines.
I eat strawberries like I have a big car.
Dragonflies
over the pond where there is an enormous pink
star underneath with pond people inside it
and in its orbits, the lilypad silk ties with their hair
and they sing with crystal voices and fish gills
the story of their victims in the heavy piano lounge
that they live in.