An afternoon with the deaf

How it plays in my mind
a rolling film
of bantering lies
that whipped me in the wind.
One Saturday, he sat beside me.

My mouth, it fell like an auburn leaf
(while listening to him)
cheeks, he squashed like overriped tomatoes
my two sweaty hands reached for him
I wanted him, I prayed.

I extended my arm,
"Pull me," I said.
Thunder-coyed.
The sun was flickering.

Two hollowed gazes were knifed in the sky.
Black depths, hollowed
of impenetrable energy.
I was scorched in the afternoon.
Skin-fried in the frosty glimmer of his eyes.

He wrapped me in violet saliva
exposed only: my hair
which he clawed and knotted
to a canon leaving for Mars.

(He) packed me with a band of green dwarves
and fed me with a pail of crystal white rocks.
I cried, "Have Mercy."
"Have mercy..."

But he was deaf, I learned
so I stopped talking.