The greatest aspiration a tuft of dandelions can crave
(Other than the complete and utter destruction of all smog producing industries [and paper companies {and anyone involved in deforestation}])
is to be planted conveniently close to a keyboard.
Everyone knows dandelions are inherently poetic.
Otherwise they wouldn’t be the favorite flower of that six foot tall woman I crushed on in 10th grade.
(I can see her now stroking them for their texture as the methamphetamines coursed through her veins like a good sunday breakfast, filling her mind while her stomach began to eat itself)
We had long talks her and I,
and she held down my best friend and gave him a blowjob,
and I used to marvel that her height aligned me perfectly to fall face first into her cleavage as we hugged.
Dandelions aren’t nearly that sexual,
and they tend to listen when asked to.
So when planted next to a keyboard,
they tend type only when necessary,
and not much is necessary to a dandelion,
much less lust,
much less judgment,
much less guilt.
Dandelions are inherently poetic.
She had this great laugh that began as this vibration deep in her belly, that grew until her fingers twitched from lack of oxygen.
Afterwards she always glowed.
She’s muted in her pictures between then and now,
something about skeletons looking better a shade of gray,
she’s better now,
but still won’t talk to me.
She probably remembers I cared more about her tits than I ever did her life.
Dandelions are inherently poetic,
they are zen,
stoic,
and planted next to a keyboard,
they don’t fantasize about seeing anyone naked.
I can see why her favorite flowers were dandelions;
Dandelions are staggeringly good at surviving.
V - Scroll - V
