In the rain, eat pistachios
The girl with the red dress, hands me a lily
Secrets of the house—of the blouse—of the bruise
I begin eating them and them and them: flax seeds
We cannot live in mud of melancholy
Like a sticky hot bun, this is all sticky
Atlanta weather’s also sticky
Green ice cream, big chunks of green pistachios
I’m feeling low and Molly Melancholy
The trumpet blew and it unfolded the lily
Mix them in shakes & shake ‘em-shake ‘em flax seeds
Why the fuck do I have to deal with the bruise???
He gave it to me—the black bruise
My feet couldn’t walk. It was all too sticky.
We kneaded the bread and added the flax seeds
I wanted to crawl into pistachios
For free, free; he handed me a lily, lily
What a fuckin’ folly, fuckin’ melancholy
Wolly! Wolly! Melancholy!
A train hit me. It didn’t create the bruise.
Lilium flowers. Lovely Miss Lily.
Adhering to a surface or thing: sticky
Unisexual Persian Pistachios
Frivolously Feisty Flamboyant Flax Seeds
I flush it out using flax seeds
He was suicidal. I, melancholy
Pissed off… pissed off… pissing pee pistachios
So badly and sadly, he gave me the bruise.
July nights in ATL, running sticky
He grabbed and put it in my hair, the lily
I returned as an Asiatic Lily
Brown or yellow or gold or Feng Shui flax seeds?
My fingers after eating the orange, sticky
Mood disorder: bipolar melancholy
It won’t leave. He’s still here. Damn! Damn Tan! Damn bruise!
This tale was never about pistachios
