Truth

I had a brain like an old motorbike, I rode it back and forth just to get laid by whomever, and that strange one who kept cats under her long skirt. Truth is a marmalade calligraphy. I yodel blood-songs prophets have stitched to my flesh. Truth sleeps under a stone. No one can number the stones. I dream of Macadamia and Muscadine of pretty girls all in a row. Truth throbs. Marimba music and matchsticks, Why all these M sonics? Mango mildew, marmalade ghosts. Why not? Miss me mother? The bike ended up in a heap - Its motor whines on. Truth is whatever’s left over after the counting of things.