Orange blossom
A steaming hot wet orange blossom. Tits and firecrackers and tits and explosions.
It’s raw like a jagged child’s bite mark on your hand. It’s colorful like distrust and Steely Dan and fruit.
It takes you by both hands and throws you into a wall. “But it touched me,” you shout, “but it touched me!”
It bleeds, but no, it gushes. It doesn’t just gush, it exudes blood, it is blood. It is blood wrapped in sausage casings that curl around each other and squeak. Louder, yes, like that. It is quite a squeak.
It is a baby bird exploding, head first, against your windshield, its little yellow beak disappearing into its tail feathers. It is liquor that is not legal in your state that someone close but not too close brings back for you from their travels.
It plays the goddam banjo, it does. It smells its hand after it adjusts its balls, and it’s nice. It is vital and confused and pointed right in your direction. A steaming hot wet orange blossom that fell to the ground this morning.
