oranges fresh oranges. sweating glasses full of ice. pulpy juice spills over the brims. the orangeness accompanied by little green leaves still attached the stems. fruits rolling away. downhill. smashing or getting smashed by mediterranean-blue cars during the rush hour. hurrying towards other kinds of hues. something colder in order to avoid the citruses.
–– I get obsessed as soon as I see a hardcover with oranges on it. knowing that italy is next. italy on ice.
with orange juice poured over & espresso & gelato &
more ice &
round heavy ripe sicilian harvest.
& anything to get high on
day after day until the waste the peels start to pile up.
I stumble on them
drag my face on the sticky sweet-smelling floor.
the fruits now turning white & mushy &
later blueish green I
gently blow on their soft surface & off flies the powder-like substance that
tickles my nose while I
lay on the chilly kitchen tiles.
meanwhile so effortlessly. the sunlight covers parts of the body making them disappear. the body transforms into an idea of having endured the conditions. gone further gone towards an abundant distraction.
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