Wednesday, November 20, 2013


the silent murder of orange
pierced skin, punctured head,
embalmed organs
it was the mummification of
squash on a floor of newspaper
alive with words

the wine glasses were finger- and
lip-printed, ringing with
the echolocation of our words
and laughter

van gogh sat on the couch, painting
the starry night into a
carrot-coloured landscape
the flower child made her pumpkin a
mirror and carved her soul into it
the freckled one looked
casually belonging in our museum
of orange

we had long since left the
dusty streets of the city of peace,
but one thing remained with us:
the small, domestic camel on the box
that spoke half in Hebrew, half in Arabic
we wanted Jerusalem in our lungs again

“I’m scared that I’ll choke,”
said van gogh
“oh please, you’re Dutch, you’re
practically born with smoke
in the lungs,”
the freckles piped in

there were no coughs,
just laughter

the smoke rose from the
candles in our throats
trails chasing each other in the
midnight air, only to sit slowly into the fog
like clumsy limbs into a chair

and our pumpkins sat inside,
with death in their teeth
and fire in their lungs,
while we did the same

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