Upon freeing windows,
when one can finally stomach that light.
Summer unhides such and such glories,
Of Monarch butterflies with a taste for blood,
Of the world fragranced as one remarkable ass-crack,
Of excellent ugliness finding audacity in the sun,
Of trembling rumps, smiling luvs, merciful nuns.
Paper kites finally kiss the bay,
Frowning infants, baked in Winter, stop traffic.
Sunny girls in Easter colors perform vulgar giggles,
Seafaring men pray up winds to upset skirts,
Children, rodents slice the composed boulevards,
Assassins, poets gander from shadow attic windows.
Pickpockets find joy in the crowd.
The neighbor finally masters wife-beating,
He is excellent. Kicks. Wails. Silence. Dinner is ready.
And alas, that Veronique from Nantucket,
Light of my life,
Sugar in my tea,
Veronique, starved of cruelty,
She rules these streets,
Vanishes into Ginkgo trees.
Floats out the ass of an ice-cream truck,
Kicks an empty Japanese boy in the jawbone,
Pinches the jowls of Old Man Benji.
Who knows what fires she will start?
Who knows what loins she must boil?
Who knows what rascal she swindles come Winter?
Who knows what poet in the window she will so upset to horrible writery?
Don’t you feel like an orange in the sun, Veronique?
Nobody perishes in Summer, dearest Veronique.
Nobody dies correctly,
What a rotten time to compose,
The whole world, is at once joyful and harsh,
And there is a deadly Veronique in the gutters.
Nothing superior to pen,
Hank, they have learnt to live without us.
Image: Feeling Alone | https://www.pinterest.com/pupplach/feeling-alone/