FÊTE CHAMPÊTRE

                                                 

Spring’s spring has well and truly sprung
announced by the pollen apocalypse
in one single orgiastic orgasm, one great
explosive spend into the air:

drifts of pale custard powder in the gutters
and potholes, dandruff from dripping
silver birches floats like a reflection on
puddles and ponds, and the scrambled
egg pompons of wattles
go off like jizz hand grenades.

Pine trees shoot their load in convulsive
squirts of botanical ecstasy.

Linden trees, and ceanothus the startling
blue of a scallop’s eye, reek of locker rooms.

Everything stinks of plant cum and even
the very air is sexy through the tears and snot.

Tree boles are cumuli of viridian lizards
fucking up a storm.

Every flower is wet and spread
for strange bees swiping right forever.

The whole of the floral, photosynthetic
world of vegetable love, vaster than
empires and more slow, bukkakes all over

itself in ritual, annual climax.

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