Summer is blown out with flowers ripening to rot; mother nature is
dragging her greasy umbel on your face and bees are tumbling through the weeds
for their sluttish queen, at home, engorged on sugar and sweating eggs. Dogs and cats roam the streets fucking and fighting. Boys and girls in their summer finest,
stroll ascotted and beskirted, if any of them would touch me, I would howl
in my burning houndblood, just a handshake or giving me my change, no one is flirting with me, but I could be a moth beating myself to fuck a flame.
Moths don't fuck light, I know, but stoners drag their hands over glistening heads of lettuce at the store and wait for their girlfriends in the hottest month, moaning under a thornbush and drinking up the swamp--anything balmy
a rabbit knows, fear and fucking, you can dress life up and freeze her in stone
but some statues could be licked and if you touch some, you'll be knocked up, sure
as July is pushing the cock's crow up your dick for fireworks.
