Fruit Salad Blues

Weeping weeping,
Mother weeps the floor clean.
Her tears flood away her apple soul
And her banana head.

Simple lies fucked up the books,
They fucked up our cooks,
They fucked up my looks.

Sometimes I think the castle isn’t big enough for the three of us.

Trying to stay in purgatory is risky business, you know.
You fight for anything
To break the chains
Of whispery, feather-light
Ghost songs and ghost
Molestations to bring you away from your
Creepy, creepy thoughts.

Your thoughts are like a Mango,
On the outside they are hard to contemplate,
Yet on the inside their delicious juices make you sing.
But in reality, all this does is mask
Their ungainly texture.

Wait, those are my thoughts.

I suppose I must
Steal a gun, replace the nodules,
Clean the chambers.

Whatever it takes.
To wash the skins and rinds
From this never-ending bowl
Of Fruit Salad.