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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile


07.13.11


In the bad time, the Queen of the Night blooms. Fragrant white tentacles dip between lips, stuffing mouths so full, you cannot speak, only spit petals.

I stay here in the bad time, all the time, maybe for all time, singing on the fur of the fox or hare -- he's never the same, he never stays still -- and so I follow the fox or hare wherever he must go, in Friday's clothes, quaffing a brandy on the hoof, black hair uncombed and wild, like the tentacles of the night-blooming cereus.




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