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.
