I pour a glass of water, try the hot and cold,
but it doesn’t make a difference, only steam today.
My hair’s dissolved as well, or perhaps
I just misplaced it long ago.
The fridge has flown out through the kitchen
window, appliances in
migratory flocks are traveling north,
and I’ve put my ice cream
in the oven, no need for any baking.
From the cupboards,
the china syndrome,
molten cups and saucers
burning through the plastic
On the table, mangoes clustered
in a bowl are going troppo,
mango particles, a conga chain reaction
They form a foggy pink and yellow
exploding all around me.
I must escape to safety—winter words on an icy page
about a TV movie, a screen
with imitation heat,
actors feigning fleeing from midsummer,
perfect with their beaded tears,
a fantasy I believed in for a while.
But now the images are melting,
trickling from the frame
and everything’s low res.
Reality might be burning, it’s hard to tell
without calor humano in pixelated grey without you.
china syndrome, sincere apologies; Harry Nilsson’s song; calor humano, Portuguese, no exact translation, something about heat and people 🙂 .
eucalypt and ice dream