Hiatus Poem No.3

Welcome to the Agglomeration

Summer Syntax

A parody starts off like a lone peach, which
unlike apples, don't fall far from the tree.
Falling into a heatwave at noon, one leaf shielding the
scorching glare of the sun, juices seep from its skin.

There are easier ways of keeping cool, the
connoisseurship of peach-juice-pressing, eg.
You hold its plumpiness between your hands,
you remove the blackberries from the fridge,
and throw it into the Arctic sinkhole.
These burning seconds are frozen with activity.

The stars give little meaning. When they shine through
the clouds, they are as distasteful as a limousine
outside a dilapidated Chinese eatery, or the toddler
who can't get enough of Baskin Robbins Maple Nut.

The full bloom of spring is a form of expression,
the naked flesh reminds the peach of past lovers,
every orange is a traitor, every grape a sister.

The peach persists in its journey, or rather it
continues in its resistance all night,
leaving a trail of internal fluid on the
granite tabletops and marble stairs of mansions,
a trail for all Hansel/Gretel fanatic wannabes.

At dusk the tumult is over. The sound of the blender
whirring from the cottage will attract its owner, and
as he stands there before the peach, now juiced up,
sweating, the beads of his bodily fragrance will form a smile
and the man will express a complete parody.

(That. And his house has burnt down.)

Till next time, may you agglomerate all your unpremeditated contemplations.