List: twelve tangerines, set into an arc, facing my brown boots. the objects are resting on a round coffee table.
Too, a plate
She is sliding nearer on the couch, estimated time of arrival when the wooden chair flips onto its own stiffness. I’ll step forward to erect the mast. She won’t want me to go.
The plate, weighed down with gray cheese while I remove my sneakers and place them beside Her bedskirt. We are sitting by the fire once more, listening to the repeated drone of flies outside the wind licked door. Her knees are coming apart into an unmistakeable and rather luxurious lounge. Rather large lounge now I’m sweating.
Our couch is soaked, heavy with salt water. The cat is scraping our toes.
Women cannot understand me OR my obscenities. It seems that they do not want to.
The hollybush, oozing smoke outside my window. Slouched, naked, sweating, I look across the brown horizon of pages before me.
Book cover, luminescent panel screen shields ghastly limp breast plate.
Sunshine whipping Rumpelstiltskin straw curl voice.
Banish the man from your bedroom to sit outside the door, floor-ridden, pawing at the sex barrier
Smoke is pouring from the bush.
I thought to step outside and sniff the fuming bramble, but decided to remain in my chair as I’d been instructed. My own fumes are toxic for a wet minute, growing damper when I slide my ass further forward. She is inching closer across the golden upholstery, the chair offset impressively onto two trunk legs.
[empty chairs are wielding their heavy potentials]
A whisp of the white stuff rose upward outside the window; another followed, slightly mishapen, gaily released. Vapors stroked the red berries which swiveled from awful stems. Leaves, the inverted platters; domes inhaling smoke into their fertile cages. The tension of white dust hoaxed my eyes perfectly:
I imagined a beetle crawling across the surface of stench
Those needles pricked my post-vacation arms in childhood, dotting my school books with girlish blood. Friends.
Crested, private, spinning webs from my golden throne, I am. What an ignition! Fuel, oxidant, the immature being outside.
I am always content to remain petrified indoors so please don’t invite me over because, frankly, I find your ropes irresistible and I cannot be trusted with my own two hands.