Bubble-gum

Poem

An elf skipped around the moon, keeping a bubblegum balloon afloat with the cheeky corners of his mouth and the hooks of his dimples. His hat was an evergreen shade of velvet nature, bells glistening and jingling around his leaf-shaped ears like pubescent seeds of growing fruits.

The hearth of the moon, glowing from the ashen lampshade of moldy dust, glittered the translucent womb of the strawberry-chewy balloon, that jutted out a pigtail’s belly button, of a pregnant woman’s, the helium (orgasm drying into an organ). skintight, wet with pink latex, a chewy pink bubble-gum youth.

Was it a heaving womb of a mother he blew with a penny’s worth of indulgence in a plastic wrapper of greasy pink, smudging yellow and green striations on the bar code?

Did the moon grow hairy and dusty under the lampshade of starlight time, from another tangy strawberry bubblegum balloon?

Bubblegum, fizz, fusion, blowing bubbles through a white mascara wand, bubble-gum, air-ground, fruit-thirst, leaves-hunger, fruit-hunger, leaves-thirst, chewy, gooey air in the pockets of your gums.

The elf then wondered about the birth that springs from the slow, lethargic dew drops of cyclic quenching. How the apples, blueberries, musk melons, and peaches of the cocks of trees, come into being?

Was it in wrappers and capsules delivering chewy pink moons on milky lips that led to anatomical smears of seeds, twigs, and leaves?

Seduction in the breeze, seasons, tickles of smog, pubes of the people, who pluck and cut and bite and spit down at the trunks.

In angles of sticky sugar and fat-stained dyes on enamel, come, bunnies rears all line like hairy, dusty peaches whose creases are lined with the chalk of the balmy truck drivers delivering them within the brute-like jostle of wooden crates.

Fairy strands of hair that look as spun as the lactation of torn leaves and pubescent fruits plucked too early from the nipples of the branch

such ripe glimmer on you.

The elf chews and engulfs his wonder like the exhausting strawberry life of his bubblegum balloon. The shrinking balloon is an ulcer now in the corners of his teeth, his feet concentric around the moon, mappings of the Rose Lines, as intentional as a jingle, the boots skip, the mouth closes in kick step merry.

“Where do you go now, little elf? Did life not lactate you a name within the town of unworn shoes and the blueberry lips of tree trunks that shut you in a warehouse under all the sequin jewelry of Christmas trees? You rubbed a lotion of the tangy bliss of not knowing enough, but knowing enough to twinkle seduction, on roofs of reason such as orchids, tulips being orange and pink, spongy, fluffy as trampolines of cotton candy cakes.

Smelling like the pungent bacteria stuffiness of cardboard boxes with twinges of perfume light — sweaty grandmas wearing lavender powdery scents — with waxy or balmy reproductive residue.

“What a shoebox you choose to live in, little elf?”

The erotica of blueberry lips, cherry bosoms fly at the moronic morose of the moon below the little elf’s jingling feet.

“What sight pray tell your ebbing stories?”

As the bubble gum recedes into the vacuum of his gut, the moon’s moldy skin is tablecloth embroidery, latching onto the fickleness of his sense like a bed in tiredness, and the little elf imagines being buried into the moon, under its crackly, crinkly sheets, shards of wafer for a tomb, a dollhouse of elves within its luminescent bosom, how maternally ironic, lactating a tunnel of blue bubble filled death, smog dressed as tulips and lilies, orchids of sleep, the sight from the lampshades of starlight looked like a jar of white candle wax sloppily breastfeeding its flame.

“So long little elf, sorry you couldn’t hold your wonderment in the tips of your fingers like a balloon, like a magician’s balloon idea held out to a child, you instead swallowed your pink bubblegum moon.”

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