Holiday spam

Mr. Evans

takes the tale to warm, quiet seawaters

down under

(the poolside leaves he never, nonetheless)

where flimsy, free booze

awaits at the edge of the pool 

crafted

with noisy, immensely red-tanned bodies

in chasm, sterile waters

with dodgy parcels of clown apparels

while plentiful unsatisfied women

starve Latinos

with their unfinished desire. 

Mr. Evans

crafts a pyramid at lunchtime

waving relief as foodstuff survived

to archeologic hunger

while spits unwanted spoils 

carving irascible anger

his own dearest must bear

for company.

Mr. Evans

points scrubs sniffing out

his daunting shoe apparel 

and,

if necessary,

jostles fingers on a public show 

of simultaneously utterly hygiene 

and anaesthetics. 

Mr. Evans

praises his goddess

the holy, icy juice of wheat

bringing him to nirvana 

to a democratically-deserved heaven 

of filthy ear-say

noisy, relentless laugh

where obfuscated teeth should've place to mourn

where he blatantly sings

España te quiero

España my amor

putting an end to the performance

with loathing sayings about Latinos

(maybe, just maybe

chocking envy

about something that sticks down

on his own). 

Mr. Evans

locks in a heaven of his own

– or should we dare to say –

a haven of recalcitrant existence 

fading away unstoppable shadows 

that obliterate the other fifty-one weeks 

the remainder equator of silent,

almost sleepless,

fading out

of Mr. Evans.