A about I wrote exactly one year ago, and a recording of me it:

there is a sickly scent of spring,
as I saunter through the soggy park.
there is a sickly scent of spring.
that point, part way,
part way, but towards the end,
just after the exact high point in the middle of spring itself
when the fumes from the flowers
approach putridity,
and you can tell ,
you can tell that they are parallel with puberty.
and the stench
the sweet smells become almost a stench,
and spring becomes vulgar.
such a thick smell that it is almost bitter.
bitterly floral.
there is desperation in that smell.
desperation that here, spring has sprung,
and yet, for how long?
there is a searing necessity to expel every ounce
of reproductive power
as quickly as possible
before it's all too late.
and even the bird song begins to sound grotesque,
like agonizing screams for attention.
spring time.

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