Central Park a stroll away from the garden, the melon garden, the buy some hot dogs from a free floating Martin or Moore, a dame with a glisten glow to stoke some great flow, the park a place for a fight, not for glory, cause a fight in Central Park, occurring after dark, don’t narc, but no tickets are sold, though the footwork is indeed gold.
It isn’t out in the light– but what is? Black Sally? Black Sally naked in a NYC storm, disregarding norms, needing some care, probably the Atlantic, Ali, student of Malcolm X would — and this is without reflex– take a breath, pray to Allah,
Blood?
You’d think blood, after all there is a lot splish-splashing ’bout. In a bout? A bout of heavy weights, all of whom are great. Great as Marilyn, above a sidewalk grate, ppppooooshshshing the air, trho a great auburn hair, a hair with a ripple, a red a’hair, a smooth blood, flow love bud, as if a clit, summer bud, a temporary arrangement why rearrangement, abbatoire, abridged, oubliette,
Arabs live in Paris now. This isn’t bad. What’s bad is if Parisian cooks can’t cook up the books, to give Arabs, not flab, big bad, humus not homunculous, a summer storm, and Khomeini lived in Paris, too. Aire on a Khomeini String, on a Jimmy Carter, strumming peanut banjo, to placate “the Shah of Iran” with a rare cancer,
But you’d be amazed, in Spain, the arabs to the Prado, or Paris, to the opej widow still remembering her beau or the faintest of pzrfume, blue purple pink rather hairy lagoon, little kids don’t need to go from diapers to uniform, though love is uni, and I’m so damned glad we flush, royal flush.
Love flush.
Spam of Human Affection 
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