Perpetual Los Angeles, perpetual candy from a stranger.
This is Uncle Wiggily inching toward an exit—any exit.
He’s maximum hydration, a big flowered tent,
ending in an overheated man’s fantasy.
I would pad-pad through picnics for you.
Look, we all have to live with this gaseous
build of instant freedom on a hot day so might as well face it,
you’re addicted to Warhol’s Flowers (1971)
as the best description I offer for your repetitive quartet of new
sprouts.
Fruit punch colours, like cocktail garnishes of yore,
on the gold-plated bling of backyard Gladyses.
Smoke Virginia Slims in middle age, rock a proto-
maxi, nag husbands, mutter from behind Fifty Shades of Grey.
You say, “Well, I’ll be hornswaggled!”
Great yardage, great yarmouths of a matador’s
oldest trick.
Bishop’s giant snail’s toad beseeches your love with his eyes,
by the blousy winds: youthful selling points.
Everyone loves a sunset. The sunset clause channel, grandfathered
in on cable,
pro-rated the wayward hibiscus in the lobby, and a pervert
revisits a ritual of nonchalance, knitting antimacassars
by the flicker of variety show light. Or some such funding scheme
circus.
Socks don’t suit a muu-muu;
and it won’t show your honeycakes, no,
but hides the embarrassment of riches
we talk about when we talk about talking.
