I dislike overripe bananas '
blotched pricks that no
metaphor can fix
as they decline into bubonic black.

And the odour they exude,
like an abandoned zoo
or Miss Beacon's armpits
back in the fifth grade
when she smacked my neck
for reading Treasure Island
during arithmetic.

Which reminds me '
I hate numbers too,
how they tag life,
how they clock us
into the taxman's arms,
and worse,
how they count
dribbles
and tears
and stars

even voids

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