fruit salad
I left two bananas on a fogged up shelf in my barren refrigerator
because in their perfect form they appeared sublime
with one naturally spooned into the other
as if their grand exhibition of lust had been
witnessed by a disappointed appliance lightbulb
faceless fruit represented by a lawyered up
bowl of grapes would go missing from my brief
interrogations as I felt I had just pierced a salacious
love triangle between aggressive pineapple bits and
two exhausted semi-brown mushy veined love sticks
a meandering shadow of pineapple raphides
formed a shame-filled exit trail across my rented linoleum
over to Seymour’s food hatch portal
flicker flash horror shows
ran telegraph sequencing rockets
into my brain box when I was
alerted to the painful existence of
creamy organic refrigerator production lines
that manufactured ghost like ingredients found
in all satisfying Waldorf salads
ABOUT THE ARTIST
Berthed from mischievous leprechauns near technicolor shadow lands surrounding Honah Lee, Theodore Wallbanger rides mysterious sparkle railcars bursting with crunchy cotton candy clouds dispatched from slippery erotic massage vixens who rage pillow laugh hourly within a splintered transportation module that screams along butterscotch wonder tracks forming vibrations for audiences across Sugar Hill Mountain.
Image generated on Magic Studio
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SHE KNEW EXACTLY WHAT TO DO. IT WASN’T HER FIRST RUSSIAN SA3 BUFFER-AND-SCREW, AFTER ALL
Jenkins Plecostomus and 2 additional chalks by Theodore Wallbanger
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