“There are women who inspire you with the desire to conquer them and to take your pleasure of them; but this one fills you only with the desire to die slowly beneath her gaze.”
– Charles Baudelaire in Paris Spleen; “The Desire To Paint.”
A Smatter of Subject Matter Mature as Force Majeure on Saltine Crackers with Lime on the Rim of Brackish Madness
Where did all these massive pastel butterflies come from and why are they swooping like aerial dive bombers, to whiz above the heads of clueless back garden languid felines? The pollen lazily plummets to earth; substantial and each constituent part joining others to tattoo the whole lot in a perverse tinge of yellow which eventually finds its way into, and indeed, onto everything.
A few weeks ago, once the bee bumbles arrived it was clear this year would be different as they staged late afternoon blitzes while I ate blintzes and analyzed each dropped honey fusion bombs, smaller than a fruit flies’ left eye, onto the awakening mosquitoes, blasting them before they could leave their underground bunkers, and enjoyed their aerial rumbas as each air strike left craters with dismembered insects around the circumference. Once the perimeter was secure, after the final enemy was vanquished to contiguous suburbia – a Red-Headed Wood Pecker, resplendent in his mating robe, and with a massive woody woodpecker, shat himself right off the thirty-seven foot mark of a pine tree, elucidation was muted; we’re here to make love and only war can provide sanctity for our brief numberless days on the world sphere.
Warning this spring belongs to the humble bumble; if you cannot stand the passion get out of the fucking yard, bitches.