too many dinosaurs

ORANGE
This bustling and officious colour has nothing to it but barking. Neither red nor yellow and barely tolerated in this countryside (colour elsewhere of tigers, tigerlilies) we have relegated it with a stern jerk of the head to its only rightful place, at the sides of roads marking the proper way, where our national sense of mischief demands that we steal and place them elsewhere, marking other older darker paths weaving drunk across the land. Not for us is the other association of oranges, cigars, girls with havana lilies tucked behind their ears and a saucy tilt to their waists. These oranges are to be ripped up with tired fingers, while the shadows from the slats of the blind lie exhausted over naked bodies. This is rich juice and bitter pith, stickiness and licking tongues and a certainty that the sun will shine tomorrow and you will be young and strong forever. No, not for us. We will drink our juice chilled from the white confines of the fridge and keep our roads on their proper path.