blog-after-the-frost3

The garden drowns in cocaine
and wears bruised black legs
with hickeys from the turkeys
who run up in the club, and don’t give a fuck.
The branches sway like a losing team doing the wave.
Berries are on welfare and their thorns
are every girl who says, “No, I don’t want to dance with you.”
Daylight is broke and can’t pay its rent,
the sun only slums when there’s a topless beach
and the trapped air can bounce to the best hands.
Cold sweat slides down the mountains
like a water slide for the comatose.
The fog machine hides the rock stars
who must have dinner by seven.
It’s a wild wild world, but it’s dreary and dead
when Spring is late and the garden comes early.

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