Warning: this poem contains strong language for the benefit of its tone. If such language offends you (and if it does, perhaps this blog isn’t for you), please do not read it.
summer fettered her children away
in fits of worried burgundy.
she found her heat displeasing
& pantomimed a panoply
of jealous envies
for every decent fuck that fall felt,
that made him shudder so
and let lay his burning limbs.
steeping, she tea-peaked in stark maroon
and sank a bruising bit below,
summer held solemnly the aureate
by blush and bending heliotropes;
stripped herself to bare breasts
and a burning bush
that rudely interrupted fall’s precision,
begging for forgiveness.
summer thrust her butt
with a twist of lemon;
flash-fried the yolk against a non-stick sky;
summer threw a fucking fit; she cussed
and pissed away her piece of sun
with irritated blush.
summer was a whore who dripped
and flapped her livid lips,
who scorched with her discharge.
she was boiling wax
& wincing ash;
she was a swollen matchhead,
summer was loose and miserable,
that only smiled some.
she was salt & citrus that sneered into
the ripped veneer of every earthly lover,
while she conflagrated with their come.
summer was the vicious bitch
that autumn cocked an eyebrow at,
before he laid his burden down,
wrestled with his testicles,
and shot his creeping seed
inside the sun-begotten slut,
who cuddled close —now pacified & pained—
and wished for just another day,
so she could show her unborn sun
that she could make it rain.
summer was the sleeping queen
that swung her hips with girth,
hung her legs between two trees and pushed
until the frost was made,
all the while promising to slaughter autumn
if and when they fuck again.
summer was an unhappy mother,
moribund or bound to be,
whose kin was carving vapour.
summer was the whining eye
that watched the winter wind
its way around her,
walking on his father’s body,
twisted brown and white.
winter was the motherfucker that
screwed the summer into spring.