The tangerine played hard to get,
Full-pipped and bursting ’til it wept
In half a drop – and in the bed it
Let itself, still pressurised,
Implode. And now, I see the eyes
(Tomorrow’s seeds) come whining.
Lungs segment and shine with
Pithy veins of difficult.

The reeling brains unsqueeze
A wince, juice the unconvinced
Decision. Ulcered vagueness stings
In citrus bleeds. It flicks away the
Far-flung seeds (still pulsing, now
From contact), and the peel.∎

Words by Liv Moul. Art by Jules Desai.