festival

         i’ll love you till the next guy comes around,

by my side,

libido dancers quivering with rubber legs, like

    swaying crops

in countryside scenes, in constellations, unseen,

with long coloured hair and slender fukbods

free-from-mental-cares

with friends

           in a massy paradise,

like a picture painted poem.

           the Stratford sun so hot in planarity of orange soda pop

sky

           i feel like

a scoop of melting vanilla  

 

 

spilling

and splashing

 

 

onto level 

with   floor . . .

 

 

 

      after several years of smoking herb and flower

it feels as good a time as any

to throw my first whitey