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.