You show me pictures of fruit.
Rounded heavy green apples.
They depress me.
They are like grenades.
Not at all like grenades. They are lifeless and dull,
Along with that sound you make,
Monotonous droning of letters that trudge through air into my ears.
Id rather be a fruitfly
At least then I could politely buzz into your fruit engorging face.
Its like watching paint dry.
Moisture of the acrid smells harden
as my patience wares thin.
A twitch in my right hand then
a sudden jerk as I lunge for a peeled banana.
Thrust its pointed tip onto the red canvass: a dagger.
I want it to pierce the stretched out flesh as great waves of crimson flood out.
But it not so satisfyingly bruises rather than mashes.
White blue black and red now.
You look at me; I look back.
I place the psychedelic stem between my pink lips.
At least you’ve shut up now.