Truth Is

The truth is – mango mildew, marmalade ghosts. I have a brain like an old motorbike, I ride it back and forth just to get laid by you, and her, and that strange one who kept cats under her long skirt. I am mildew on a mango. 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 like an idling engine. Marimba music and matchsticks. Truth is I am whatever’s left after the counting of things.