I'm having a kiwi right now for the first time in, like, 5 months.
and it reminded me of a poem i wrote last year.
ENJOY.
There are kiwis on the counter
How I long to grab one of those seraphic orbs
and cut it into two perfectly equal halves.
The big, green eyes will weep
juice, as I pick up my shiniest spoon.
I’ll scrape off the daintiest sliver
of the emerald meat,
and raise the spoon, hand quivering,
to my dry lips.
The juice will touch my tongue,
and the tiniest moan will moan
deep within me.
My teeth will tear apart the seeds
and with every mastication
my mind will travel farther and farther
east, until I open my eyes to the Orient.
When I’m done, there will be nothing
of the kiwi left, it will be destroyed,
completely ravaged,
and I will be a dark dream
to scare young kiwis, and make them
go to bed on time.
But the fuckers aren’t ripe yet.
They are sitting on my counter
and they are not ripe yet.
They’re waiting for a sign
From God or nature or
whatever to become soft
and sweet.
So I sit,
longing.
