I wish I could write a poem about this candy that I’m sucking on

I wish I could write a poem about this candy
that I’m sucking on,
and write plainly about the taste
and describe the sensations it leaves me
without getting too tangled up with heartstrings,
without cracking recesses of emotions
that are too messy for casual discussion about sweets.

The images I can deal with.
Tongue frolicking with barrel-shaped candy.
Mouth awash with peppermint taste
that I can only associate with toothpaste,
that leaves a clean feel over trails of words expressed.
Non-existent foam of root beer trickling down my chin
as I take a gulp from an icy-cold, not-even-there macho glass.
Spicy eroticism of muscle meets confectionery.
And I wonder: What kind of offspring will they yield?

Against these mind pictures I can hold my own
without missing my poem’s cadence,
but only until Pavlov steps in and buzzes through.

After sensation comes conception,
and there’s no stopping the association
as the atmosphere changes and gets tensed.
It’s like electrons get excited and charge up the heart,
where,
in reminiscence of nouns
that I am not quite sure how to deal with at the moment,
this fist-like muscle finds its right to betray.

The cool, almost-but-not-quite familiar foreign land
filled my then ten-year old head with fantasies of sea kingdoms,
where mother, father, and brothers play the part of family.
There were stickers and by-now disgustingly pink stuff,
diamonds cut, root beers that don’t quite intoxicate so badly,
fast food grinches that do not allow princesses to eat fries on counters,
and green candies that beg introduction to mint-chantment;
all these as I sail on ships that only move to and fro:
These are piquant delights to those such as I,
who wanders so lonesomely in the land of remembrance.

Right here and now, I find the thought in bad taste,
as it gets flushed with salty wetness in my mouth.
How do tears even get passport to transit through lips?
Is it not possible for memories to stay put and buckle themselves inside the head?
Why can’t mothers remain alive, and fathers be strong enough?
Should brothers always lose selflessness
together with their ideas of selves?
How do spectacled girls close their eyes amidst all these?
Or do my eyes remain open as I suck on root beer flavoured candy,
all while my heart unscramble itself from reverie?

I wish I could write a poem about this candy
that I’m sucking on,
and write plainly about the taste
and describe the sensations it leaves me
without getting too tangled up with heartstrings,
without cracking recesses of emotions
that are too messy for casual discussion about sweets.

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