the cowardice of frozen fruit

I rest my head between perpendicular wooden beams because my neck gets tired.

It doesn’t get tired of the weight, no it is quite used to it all.

My neck, instead, is tired of constantly twisting and turning, swivelling and circling,

Only to never see anything at all.

I think frozen fruit is safe and fresh fruit is joy.

Frozen fruit is low maintenance, you visit it whenever you like with no commitment to its care or its mood or its shape, only to its use to you. It is like walking past your mothers garden and pretending to be inspired by its boring bloom. It is like nights that stood once and open-eyed, half-kissed kisses. It escaped the passage of time and the life and death

Only to sit, cold and shrivelled, inside a thin, uncaring plastic bag.

It giggles, I have cheated death!

Only to cheat itself of life too.

Fresh fruit is real and alive. It demands commitment. It cries, enjoy me before I rot! Consume me before I die! I am vulnerable and finite and perpetually on the brink or fallen into

extinction.

First you must love me, embrace me, know me,

hold me in your mouth, devour me, understand me

and then you must let me go.

Sometimes fresh fruit sits in plastic too, but it is that of a punnet.

It has structure and sensibility and demands architecture of its own right. Never before has plastic become a skeleton,

but so it becomes, but so it folds, but so it bends its knees for

Fresh fruit.

I often think about how hard we try to fight gravity.

At first we succumb to it, wriggling helplessly in its grip. We then graduate to crawling, instead of being held by gravity, we hug it so as not to alert it, not to trouble it with the thought that we need less of it by the second. Then we walk, a foot ahead of the other, and from there on we create a resent-filled relationship with gravity.

Throughout our interaction with the day, we rise and fall and rise and fall and rise like breath, like waves, like chewing, like lovemaking.

We carefully stack tetris blocks, we dig foundations deep into the ground,

We stick flags into the moon and support beams into plants

and say, we are the conquerors!

We are the conquerors of our brethren, we are the conquers of our mothers, we are the conquers of heretics, we are conquerors of our earth.

Only for earthquakes grab us by our ankles and tsunamis thrash upon our heads.

And for us to fall back onto our back, once again wriggling helplessly in gravity’s grip

And trying to crawl against it once more.

Oh god it is all so point less.

Oh god it is all so round.

Yet we all continue to clamour

to discover

What will never want to be found.