Plastic Tea Party (A snippet)
Poem
A tunnel of rotting trees, like cigarette, estranged infidel grandfathers on sloping cellulite, where the leaves rot in hay spirit on their balding dusky canopies and cobweb lactation on their wrinkly barks.
The neighbor’s trees form a distance in the corner of my eye to Emerald City, floating on blue plaster concrete.
My teddy bears, my grandmother old doll, and I drank nothing but hot milk swirled in chocolate powder dipped in three biscuits after crushing our pillows and cotton comforter, like knives smearing and lathering chunks of ice cream on a slab of marble, you can hear the meters and syllables of molten ice-cream muffling the metal at an acute angle, that’s what my blue-dressed blonde haired doll got giddy over, when all of us played ice-cream parlor with pillowcases, a peeling plastic pink doctor’s set and a queue of stuffed toys and dolls tumbling out of balance onto the mattress.
Soon, when every doll stormed off with a vanilla cup after whispering and not getting a wafer and candy cane surprise, I packed my picnic basket with bread cemented with peanut butter on each side, like the urine dousing of turpentine on a fabric of canvas, of our brunch hunger. Then a pebbled rubble of toffees, a stream of juice contained in a plastic pink flask, and a packet of our morning biscuits, stacked in an empty water bottle like beads on an abacus.
The flowers around us, housed in cement, like suburban bungalows glazed underneath the damp winter sun like slobbery lollipops. And we laid out a tablecloth on an unremarkable bit of rock, whipped cream clouds above us stray on terrace rooftops, my teddy bear held one with the eager, scenic starving fingertips of his beady plastic black eyes, flashing over the exploring innocence of his triangle snout that warped into a circle, as large as his gut, till his tread stitched mouth.
“Would you like your tea with fewer spills, three sugars, and placed on either your belly gut crotch or the fluff of your curved shoulders, Mr. Teddy Bear?”
