I Imagine in 1951 the Noise from that Orange Grove Wasn't as Loud as that Six Lane

You arrive like candy on my tongue. We play drums for a while and the extra pink tongue that you don't mind keeps playing at the corner of your mouth. The street becomes the blue-skinned jewel, the fake blood you keep in the refrigerator, and the fresh blood you keep in your thermos. We take walks and dream at the same time. Caught in the cool dark shadows over your eyes, the deep cave under your brow where we sometimes play together like silver fish. The pulsing is the frequency I use to contact the ovular mothership. As you rotate, your neck sighs. It opens doorways and windows in the sky. Velvet skin upon my teeth holds the secret pleasure under threat of death, but the pink candy breath you use to calm the beasts swaying in the glaze under a canopy of a hundred thousand guitars is our secret weapon.