That, folks, is an orange.
I know it doesn’t look like an orange. I know it kind of looks like a pumpkin that accidentally got lumber-jacked by a drunken arborist who was just trying to show his friends how powerful his cleave was but couldn’t quite locate a log at 1am but, I assure you, that’s an orange.
Or rather what’s left of an orange after the ‘Circle of life’ fucks it so hard that it quite literally bursts with life.
I realise that ‘Bursting with life’ is generally associated with positive things such a spring, overly pregnant ladyfolk or even some some stupidly colourful painting. But when you stop and think about it for a moment, Chest Burster Xenomorphs from the ‘Aliens’ universe will also have you bursting with life.
Squealing, bloody, acid filled, internal organ consuming life.
Give you the warm and fuzzies does it not?
I bring your attention to this orange for a reason. And the reason is my usual one. So that I can use it as a launching pad to take the long, long, LONG way around to getting to a point.
Because much like a square shaped wheel, that’s just how I roll. (Unnecessarily difficultly)
I made mention last blog post that I put some shit on Instagram regarding a certain Multi-Level Marketing Pyramid scheme who will remain nameless but rhymes with Isa…Ben Licks?
Anyway, I have an Instagram account. There’s a link up there if you wanna be inundated with pictures of coffee and whatnot.
Now I also made a post a while ago about how I hate poetry.
But immediately after posting it, and reflecting on my prior experiences with the bite sized written word I adopted the mantra of the man who’s desperately trying to talk his lady friend into travelling the Khyber Pass.
‘Don’t knock it till you try it’
And, admittedly, writing poetry is a little different than going in the tradesman’s entrance with your best gal. But I felt I should at least try my hand at it properly before saying that I truly hate it.
(So Instagram, and poetry. We keeping up so far kids?)
Most normal people will tell you that they’re willing to give anything a try once, but the second you rock up at their doorstep with two pigs, some leashes, hair clippers and olive oil they start getting antsy.
Well not this idiot. I’ll be there with the requested 100ft of flexi-ducting and a looping track of Joe Esposito’s ‘You’re the best around’ so we can get this party started post haste!
And to prove it. I’ve started a series of hand written poems that I post on Instagram with some artsy filters and a butt-ton of hashtags titled ‘F**k poetry.’
And because I feel generous, I’m going to save you having to subject yourself to my Instagram page and looking at my artsy, head up my own arse pictures, and just write the poem bellow.
Honestly this feels like stripping in front of a crowd.
Yes, I know what that feels like.
Here we go.
Fruit of the season,
Firm flesh, florally fragrant.
Yielding to my hand over time.
Swelling with life.
Movement beneath blushing,
Beauty that bursts at the seams.
Beauty consumed by pestilence within.
Beauty that births rot.
Hollow and open, no more moving.
You ain’t pretty no more.
So yeah. That’s the poem about the orange I saw on the ground under the orange tree that I do an exceptionally poor job of maintaining while I was taking a garbage bag full of shitty nappies and wipes out to the bin one morning.
Fucking poetry man. I swear.
Disclaimer: I legit still have no clue what any of the poems are about aside from the orange one. Read into them as much as you like, I offer no answers.