but so askance the two eyes,
the brows so gliding into
a weaving of sorrow -
there she was, readily to be painted
for a caricature portrait at
the congregation of artists
at Trafalgar Sq.,
for something being spotted
as over-blossomed,
but then the economics kicked
in, and the dream died,
back to square one...
but that single instance of her
worried brows and the mournful
droop in her eyes
as if readied for the Monsoon...
but forgetting the inflammatory
juicing of her genitalia...
what an oddity to see and thus
describe the counteractive ingredients
of what constitutes a human body
in egg-like-wholeness... chicken's
nibble cluck and peckish pluck of the
constant agreed nod for being a factory
of eggs and a slaughter-meat.