a hymn of the menstruals

in the spring time we sing. lullabies and serenades to bigotry and race. ecstatic, civilized, and coherent. as if it lightens. as if, the weight, the mass, the force of the curious chuckle breathes in your soul. with the blossom of fragrance, with the bloom of the rainbow, with the odor of the christening, the gardening and the tippy-toe, there is a nonpareil enthusiasm of the optimist. maybe, with nature, i can reset the synchrony, the anachronistics. shade and glaze the dullness, the shadow of a mournful painful winter song. the menstrual hymns, the sinister babes, the categorical gravity, seem diffuse. obtuse in angularity, and pregnant. fecund. soulful and blissful. in peril of the winged epitome of a scatter herd of luminous, careless, saint-devils. i revel in the sound of an oxymoron. not the oxymoron in its category. cherish the peculiar analysis of a grapheme, and a syllable. the polysyllabics. the structure of the male grammar. the geometry of the ovaries. the catechism of hormones. the unity of the eye lash. the developments and circularity of an anorexic circuit. the aroma of smiles. the tentacles of eyes. the seams of flies. of hearts, leaves, gin and the elements of the individual. a scripted melodramatic queer, with the ravenous thirst and the spectacular thunder of blood rivers. the fashionist and the materialist are divorced in love. how paradoxical, this allegory of my cityscape. they pray to the wind, and mutter words of misery to the joyous. in competition, vehement. in despondence and recourse, in categories and polyps. it is time to sing. a love song of fidelity. a homily of innocence, of mating and skipping reciprocals. this is how we love, this is how we sleep and this is how we dream in couples of nine.