Arboreous & Aqueous

Arboreous, 1967; never been held..

A gap in the teeth only adds to this hypothesis. “It’s nothing personal”, say most girls, young and old, red in the face. Joan the tomato, as she’s known, whilst climbing a fence built by the underground railroad workers, aged 31 and 36 respectively, hears the sound of a sink guzzling dark liquid reluctantly. Arboreous, the rainforest. Arboreous, friend of the Koala. Doomed only by loss of love to the head. A professional photographer otherwise.

 

Aqueous, 1967; throwing a party..

Dirty bronze apartment with cold purple drapes used primarily for Friday night poker napkins. When the eve comes, the bed moans -and the claws; the claws of an obsidian gargoyle man dig into the high-rise glass bed. Drink in hand; with Sahara Desert desperation. Blood-shot alarm clock working simultaneously as a walking ash-tray. Aqueous, forever the forgiver. Aqueous, the life-liver. The water. Oblivious to the top-hat shadow in the alley way, she hums a tune to make a special man pur.

 

They belong like flora and fauna & fork and knife & foot and shoe & ant and anteater..

 

But that’s only my opinion.

Author's Note

i wrote this in college a few years ago during biology class