The Sound of Peeling Grapefruits

I love the sound of peeling a grapefruit.
Listening to the thousands of sinews and strands
Pulled away by some intangible force
Known only as- The Fingers.
The cries of it’s underground cities
They are duplexes
One below the other
And sometimes you need to rip again
Tear away their roofs so they can see-
Their doom.
A hungry hole to envelop their treasure
Buried deep below the surface
I eat them like oranges
In it’s own prepackaged presliced slices
Or hungry wolves
Feasting on the kill
Because 

Because it reminds me
Of my most carnal desires
And how I wish some one would do the same to me
To be rid of my rind
Juicy and sweet I’d roll down steps into hands
That would hold my grapefruit body
Up to their corresponding ruby red lips
To be enjoyed, and wholly consumed
Such edaciousness one cannot protest
For esurient as the grizzly
Starving itself for the taste of man
The grizzled do not forget.

The sound of peeling grapefruits
Like tiny maracas my own tiny pink
Mexican band strumming away at my grapefruit heartstrings
That plays like a conch
Heard best at the ear.
And as the shade that follows you
Footsteps heard but never seen
Stop when you stop walking
Stops smelling when you stop scratching.
These little mariachis pick at the chord of my life
With the rhythm of my handsteps
Upon this white earth

The dimpled yellow planet
Hides deep beneath it’s calm exterior
Laid on twice thick
The forbidden fruit of Barbados
The land of slaves and sugar
The man thought too good
For black asses and tanned natives
But the grapefruit bleeds red
Just like everyone else.
And when they lobbed off half the melon
Like the natives hands when found empty
Of gold, they poured sugar like salt
To coat the deep wound
Lying clothed in a bathtub
Body cleft in twain
With the sweat of the downtrodden
To sweeten the pain
Ready for the spoon.

I like the sound of grapefruits peeling
And only if just once
I’d like to see the grapefruit undone
Alone
To hear the rhythm of it’s own nails
Breaking flesh away from bone
The tiny strings pulled, cut
By it’s own hungry hand.
To unravel and spin
As though a flag unfurled
Or Ron Popil’s Amazing One Cut Peeler
That winds down around
The pockmarked surface
Forming the greatest Grapefruit slinky
Or the joy of a childhood twisty slide
If only it wouldn’t shrink, wilt, rot
Like the playgrounds we’ve all forgot

I love the sound of grapefruits peeling
Because I need that in my life
To know that something could be naked
Stripped of it’s bright and pretty shell
With purpose and understanding
That what resides inside is sweet
And sweeter still
Than the sugar we coat it with
Than the melon lets on
Than any of us, you or I
Can imagine.
For to taste the great fruit your own scared flesh forbids
Is to know, is to love.

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