The auburn: golden streaks that paint up the stork, the dark: brown stem writing poetry onto the naked palm: that rises up, with the watercolour that splashes a canvas of rainbow: glittering like gold: rich like tomato.

In sadness: a faded stream flowering over a blue sky: may animate onto a wooden film: grey like the rabbit; that emerges from the fence: pink like the green apple, that ripens in the sunflower fields. Green shoot: slippery, tiny: illuminates a portrait of nature: that is seized at the end, the white paper ripped into stardust: the picture crumbling down with a fingernail. The illusion splinters into little glass hearts; as reality hardens: like fruit: and splatters the shimmering picture.
Anger; peeled like a potato, falls red in my hands, is it sweet: I cannot finish my arithmetic: as the vegetable slips from my hands, onto the pulled cart: full of gold coals; or is it apples: at closer inspection. The gold sealing the edge of the mahogany wood: it cannot be real; or the sun would not fall: on those ripe produces: and the rain would not shed water; and the sands would not breathe fish.

A breath rips from my throat: rough as a daydream; and I think: where did it all go? The papers had lain; like daises in may: filed like brown envelopes: an unflattering shade of sellotape: old; as it coats the address. But hands, sharp as a file; had ended them in a fire: in shades of darkness: that had closed the day: that had burnt a shovel: like mud; over my insides.

As the lines in the music play: I do not miss you; but you are like a rotten fruit: the moulded insides: peeling and brown: disintegrating in my fingers, a banana laid to waste: a fruit picture of a still life; glass, jar; and brush intact: a hazy painting of colours and the time: that breaks in my hands.