The park disappoints.
The squat trees that burn
have kept their powder dry.
Snarl-lipped cheap vermillion bunch
haired women, slaps of plaster
pocked below the spring wash.
There is a pair at cards
up on the promontory,
above the Canaletto-definition
lake. The well-appointed compartments of the scene
irritate. Englander allotments
never pleased me.
The ripples of the mallards
seem like halos.
Too slick the feathers
on the pate.
I want to execute the scene
to Lee Scratch Perry
tearing at the lines
with black distortion
awful mauves and fuck-me fecund
Yellow Flowers
Do it for me.
Whore’s pussy sunsets
Whore’s perfume flowers.
Third world nature stink
is the victor
Over Chelsea Physic Garden stricture.
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