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.
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