19 December 2011

Apocalypse #5

Apocalypse #5 12/19

He hands me dried raspberries that have been soaked in alcohol, I mistake them for goji

Cupboards open, swollen faded hot red fruit cascade against cobalt Spanish tile

A lemon top-heavy cloud shifts from one end of the sky to a spot above Nevada

The beehive-shaped fruit goes on the tongue, tastes like dipped cordial oranges

He waves his hands in the air violently screaming about a trip to the bank that went awry

The sun reaches that point where it bursts through the door hysterical about the end times

He tells me the fruit is neither raspberry nor goji, laughs, breaks a curtain rod on an anvil

I question the anvil about the Kyoto Protocols and ask the not-raspberries for some scotch

Somewhere over Nevada it begins to rain sugar

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