Scissors-flowers

orange scissors were never meant to cut apples
in the coca-iridescent glow and small tabs
on the pale plywood bedside cabinet
..
and in your gut
..
the full passing renegades of drab existence
will trade their dour skins
and your inert people come alive
...
dance like swallows to the harps of arpeggios
of simpering thin beams of sunlight spilled
into viridian green cloisters of still sad glades and
lime thrilled quills of grasses ferns and mosses
pierced by the dactyl calls of wood echoed birds
and the slow drop drop of apples from the wild wrangled tree
or
dance like sadistic crickets under unlucky moving moonlight
or moths who sail the dark deep winds
to party, discretion shoals in iridescent secrets
in the hidden places writ in the air by ancestors
when time was more acerbic
but all things were feasible
...
round and round the atoms of existence spin
each piece will circle chance and fall and coalesce
like pollen in a turbine eddy of coherent air
its will rest and
centric as the apple
flown its provenance
will allure like flowers in your hair
beware their scent
for this is addiction
and these are deathly flowers
regaled in other colours