Read Poem: FRUITLESS, by Charlotte Stella

The music of Rory Gallagher mineralized into demented daffodils, and the wooden heel of my
boots played a melancholic metronome on Mott St.
Before our bodies blend and burn as
banana peels brown, my footsteps
mutilate the stairs to obscene
serenity.
He said I’m wholly consumed by derelict deficiencies, and swallowed shards of decency
alongside his thick white spit.
There were cod filets in his freezer.
The rip in the ass of my pants was off putting to Cornell philosophers, and my desire to become
the Underground Man proved his analysis odious.
No more fervently could I have lain
in the natural occurrence of this
disaster.
I was fated to be a lobotomized fawn taking orders from pine trees, and still have the pleasure of
tachycardia and unrelenting vexation.
Off she went again, seeking solace in
the benzo’s bosom.
The garish intricacies of his words left spotted stains on my Spotify playlist, and my morals were
smited in their own courtroom.
I’ll simply glide down the ear
canal of the 6 and delve into
halfwitted fantasies.
The Dairy Queen worker over-swirled me past the point of recognition, and rehabilitated me to
live a lifelong death.
“Pull over! There’s Premium Passion
for sale!”