Green apples ape the symmetry of a cracked bowl
Zen via florescent light fixture, fish
tank alight in the corner of the room, a
hypothermic blue, portraits in
the fashion of Lucrezia Borgia
with shroud, drag queens with
expensive booze, and pre-pubescent
girls with plastic pink flamingos in the yard
where antiquarian roman busts scowl arched
eyebrows in hypersensitive exoticism,
the chorus of a gaggle of men
with their throats entombed by voice boxes,
where the midwives turn messengers, and the
handsome slaves ride their spotted ponies
into the deep dusk.
Green apples ape
the symmetry of a cracked bowl,
the crystal so hollow that it sings
in lavish gulps of idolatry.
a conquistador matador bull fighting
with milk and honey on this teeth,
she has burned her fingers from
flat ironing her hair in the arid bathroom,
her eyelids taste of hairspray and last night's
loud music – her mind is spun into
endless braids and tangles, her phantom
hairline askew, the wig unwavering.
She doesn't trust herself
to understand the complexities of reality.