Green-glowing leaves, tanned brown by angry suns
isn’t what I’m writing ’bout.
How scarlet peckers’ needle beats thy drum.
They can’t; they don’t exist. Neither dost “thou.”
¿& all those tardy sunset conflagrations?
are nothing but your wild imagination.
No, no, no…
I’ll tell you what it’s all ’bout,
I'll tell you what it's all 'bout...
October sugar o’ peanut butter cups
plucked off the vine ripe after ages o’ toil—
& buttery black oil…
No, no, no, stop.
Don't interrupt me.
It is not good for my constitution, you fuck fucker.
There is no autumn,
nor no spring.
There ne'er was,
& there ne'er will be 'gain.
It's o'er, it's done.
We've had an OK run, ¿OK?
Nothing's OK in this throat o' the woods.
A mushy lump o’ brown fruit bitter with too many months falls with an unheard squish
not in half-rainbow leaves;
not in cool turquoise streams;
not on pine-shaded, moss-brimmed eaves;
not in bowls o’ whipped cream…
There's nowhere for you to flee, my dear.
There is nothing here.