Run to the animated pad,
take slow pauses, trace
minute steps back
to the shimmering
stop, without a print.
Count your blessings
bearing honeyed woes.
Convivial spirits
ease those women in
cardboard shorts.
Shambolic.
A view staggeringly
breathtaking. Lungs filled
with helium, I let out
squeals that paint the
austere town in
a myriad of colors
undreamed of.
Unlike blue, quite yet
violet, flashes like
gold. These women take
off their shorts
to unravel pornographic
visions that tongues
truth.
Hence they say,
like all surrealists,
I paint my dogs
in tiny polka
dots.
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