Poem : Perfect Melon Square

Disillusioning as it seems

your presence appears circular

like the charmed particles of purple.

A torrent of synthetics and stars

three holy kings

extracted after boiling point.

Your head

lays burried beneath a sky of tarpaulin

on the cusp of rotting tomatoes.

These onions are often mistaken for constellations.
We resist
both sunshine and soap.

Bananas hang like prayer beads

with rust-coloured mosquito vectors

commonly worshipped in supermarkets.

These trees are unleashed from cars

under the dirt of a thousand Chinese metaphors

entombed in sequence

holding green the powdered roots

of transubstantiation.

As lost
as the unseen hexagrams

of palatial yogurt pots.