Who in their right mind would ever want to date in summer, when it seems at night the fattest moth comes to lick its elective candles? The time is much better spent singing unanswerable doggerels under catalpa leaves which move more sweetly than any pied feminin under tout l’eclairage naturel, in the destined firmament, which shakes off any notion for high hopes with phosphorescent trails, streaming across a large majority of our dazzled irises.

I cannot doubt there is any glee to O’ Hara’s ode to Mayakovsky but there is a nonsense in the air tramming along a halo which is in residence over your blank state.

How shall we perspire in our depths of being? In the rhythmic sheaths which is an interlude of youth, rage and Elderly Summit. Or over this multilateral picnic, a thousand ants to desire our scant privy? In either case it howls Innuendo at my haunted moon, changing the surf in a different rhythmic land.

xxxxyou may be wise
xxxxbut can we leave it
xxxxto the jesters

xxxxI am soft
xxxxI melt and become
xxxxhard quite easily

The softer puppets
may only be scarred
by the hands who animate them.