Poems about oranges

First time my father overheard me listening to
This bit of music he asked me,
"what is it? "
"it's called Love For Three Oranges, "
I informed him.
"boy, " he said, "that's getting it
Cheap. "
He meant sex.
Listening to it
I always imagined three oranges
Sitting there,
You know how orange they can
Get,
So mightily orange.
Maybe Prokofiev had meant
What my father
Thought.
If so, I preferred it the
Other way
The most horrible thing
I could think of
Was part of me being
What ejaculated out of the
End of his
Stupid penis.
I will never forgive him
For that,
His trick that I am stuck
With,
I find no nobility in
Parenthood.
I say kill the Father
Before he makes more
Such as
I.
From ONTHEBUS - 1992

Your hands are cold,
But they are able to make
Even the smallest touch
Onto skin
Spark into flames

Its thick leather wraps like the layer of skin
Broken into by God
Our souls resting beneath its core
Its veins run course from the streaks of light it sheds
A delicate orb of moisture providing the very same life you once had
Now snapped at the vine of Earth
Banished forth to the afterlife of our bodies
And now torn by the thick paws of the beast
Claws rushing down your spherical canvas from the moment HE swallowed your breath
To the day He ripped all else from the tree

What gives you the urge to trickle the bright red from your blanket
Once patterned with gold but now soiled in the aftermath of a war

I used to breathe love but my lungs breathed hate
The same way a fire gives warmth but will shed to kill life

The corpse of your tongue stays moist and warmer than all
The sole pallette living with the flavor of fruit
Craving life like the way you crave it's sweetness
But once the taste dies down
So does your will to continue on
Thus the consumption of the fruit is the desecration of a breathe
Your last memory of your last sense
The touch of a golden sun
And the grime of a sweetened moon

Summer, spring, winter, fall,
It always carried a whiff of cleanliness, like lysol,
Bleach and daffodils had made a not so secret love
Child.
There were never any marks. no signs of mistakes,
Accidents, humanity.
The floors glistened like the sun beaming off a black
Convertible.
The windows, you couldn't even tell they were
Windows. not without the panes.
Transparent like the shores of the Mediterranean.
I never touched anything.
I held my breath among glass, ornaments, picture frames.
Afraid one intake would show up like a smudge that could
Never be wiped off, no matter how much one tried.
She fits the house. like those china dolls, polished to perfection.
Blonde hair rolled in unison curls. no frizz. never any
Fly aways.
Face just like those windows, eyes raging in a storm too far away.


His room was the only one i could sink in.
Legos scattered
(i always stepped on the yellow ones)
Clothes fuming with dirt and almost manhood.
His posters crooked, carrying characters dressed in
Armor, or tuxedos, animated, weapons in hand.
His bed, never made, incasing the last impression of his body
(he always slept on his side)
A spot of drool still visible, blankets holding his scent.
Soap, laundry detergent and oranges.
Game controllers trashed, bite marks, dents, too many battles.
I finally breathed when i walked in.

Oranges are nice

A lady had a garden of oranges
Oranges were green
Her children were in teen

The garden was irrigated
Oranges went yellow
Her children needed 'fellow'

The garden entered spring
Oranges got burr
Her children left her

The garden suffered autumn
Though oranges were ripe
Her endless tears... and nobody to wipe

The garden may love its fruits
And oranges may be orange
But this poet wants revenge!

As if I had the patience;
To become the faceless replacement
To endure hollow transformation.
Another ghost in Void Lust's engagement.

Much to awkward arrangement;
Two hands clasp adjacent,
Two mouths agape in amazement.
Two souls surprised to find that
Together they are satiated.

"You make me forget all the bad things"
I'm really glad.
I wish I could say the same.
You make the bad bearable.
It's incredible.
I can't tell you how incredible.
Just like I can't fully explain this sickness.

It's physical pain that pulls my mind from the bliss of you
To the darker realms
This multiplying cocophony of symptoms
United to produce
A mystery illness
Undiagnosable
- So far.
It's pain, discomfort, sorrow, and a slow ebbing of hope
- But you, arms shielding me from the world
You, eyes warm and deep with concern
You, somehow with the right words,
When I didn't believe there were any,
You, simply listening,
You give me hope.

To be alone now could be unbearable
That spark becomes inconceivable.

You just keep me hanging on
And that's more than I could have ever asked for.

Thank you
Is not adequate
For the time and energy you have wasted
Cuddling my tears dry
Loving me as the worst of it fades
Til life is a bowl of oranges once more
A still life posed
A fraction of experience
A page of exqusite poetry
Til life is colour and meaning
And depth
Til life is more than just pain splattered red across a page.