“a clockwork orangerie”

gears click  
in humid glass  

copper vines coil  
around brass struts  

oranges glint  
like captive suns  
hinged to silver branches  

steam drifts—  
a hiss-purr among pistons  
petals unfurl  
to the pulse of time  

shadowed aisles  
radial rods pumping  
light into crystalline blooms  

one dimpled fruit  
slips free  
into a glass basin  
and rings  
into silence.






.

Fee-fi-fo-fum— as we weighed love by
an empty ounce, and paid it all back by this
sore pound. They yell: “come now or begone,”
and if you can’t produce the sum for what’s
been done; flee to fine some… or find none.

An anguish in fornication, and a touch that speaks,
but means nothing at all. No real stimulation—
just hunger in the guise of heat, and shame where
love was meant to meet. As some feather-dust their
guilt, pretending to have clean intentions. But we’ve
only used each other to air out our frustrations.

These old recycled themes; ******* from peers,
spilling from worn-out jeans, and spreading
dreams like genes, without real meaning in between
the fabric of time.

But tell me, do you still not see the giant problem?
Or are you too big for yourself, to fully measure up
to your own faults?

When eyes turn into a mouth,
and many mouths spell the same,
they cook the scenery with spices
and serve it to mankind.
The superficial minds swallow it whole,
but the deeper ones search through the flavours,
tasting the raw truth beneath.

They take the news across minds —
bending it, twisting it, building it —
giving it a new form,
and pouring it into the pots of hollow heads.

Not all rumours are just rumours; some are truths wrapped in uncertainty.