Poem in 11 Shades
Blue: mailbox blue eyes, let's begin.
Orange: it must be afternoon; the venetian blinds are humming softly in tangerine.
Brown: potato skin hair. You are a distraction. You are a comfort.
Purple: she looked through the crisp button down of his chest, imagining the palpitations of that eggplant heart. With each invisible squeeze she imagined his blood emptying out and retracting like an ocean.
Red: the pomegranite sky clustered around the horizon, slowly giving itself up to the evening.
Yellow: the sun was swallowed up slowly by the sky, as though it were a large egg yolk getting sucked down the sink drain. When night hit there was clear fluid left; he was the only one to see it.
Pink: His cheeks had two deep strawberry rashes streaking across; as though he were embarrassed about everything, all the time.
White: Upon hearing this he paled; the color flashing out of him, as though someone had bitten his cheek and drawn it out.
Black: It's now Friday and the evening sky gives nothing back. It's a dull television screen shut off, without even the wandering static of clouds.
Green: The tunnel walls absorbed the reflected lights like a waxed apple. The gloss of the train station was nearly palatable, when the tracks received the onslaught of the A5 express.
Gray: There are nearly 500 variations of gray* that a human eye can recognize. As a child he was a crayon fanatic, coloring everything in sight. 20 years later he has been slowly eaten up by the color gray; it glowers in his irises, streaks down the flanks of his body, colors in his expanse of morning. It is all gray for him now.
*This fact gleaned from the nifty site: http://www.sensationalcolor.com/ where you can find out lots about colors.
**This poem is dedicated to my beautiful color crazy buddy Vera, who inspired me with her color questionnaire!
The only understandable thing
is the air bag. The crash is misinterpreted.
Plotting it out for rational people results
in a mess. Spiked lines and no symmetry.
The driver was looking both ways. The pedestrian
was only a pedestrian in the strictest sense
of the word. The STOP sign is a message
to us all. When we reach a crash we all
get nervous, it's a rattling unknown thing.
The air bag fills up the space in front of us,
blossoms plastic and stitching, gives us something
tangible to hold on to instead of hope.
*I realized I subconsciously stole the title of this from a Radiohead song of the same title*