The Birds and the Bees

Hot weather has come.
Summer has come!
And the lovely little lovelies unfasten their sepals.
Their petals spring forth in bloom,
swelling and flushing with color,
engorged with eager expectancy,
even smiling at the moon.

The bee boys gather, ready to lather
in pollen.
Rigid with lust,
they fly from their husks,
their honey-cave prisons,
their walls tacked with the sticky sweet memory
of last summer's infidelity.
They hover and buzz between the blushing flora,
examining, imagining, but not conspiring.
They sting in solitude;
every yellow-black fellow to his own,
and to each: all.
Perfect gentlemen.

There is no need for your rhetoric here.
There is no need for your sweet talking, cat-walking, jabberwocky here.
Your "duck-blossom,"
"lady-bug-possum,"
"dimpsy darling baby rabbit"
"creamy fowl" rose clouds of creamy, foul persuasion.
Small game still knows when they are hunted.
Lord Byron died st(r)oking his own passion.

They begin their infringement on the petals,
tickling and taunting,
tempting and teasing
their way to the heart.
In this flirtation
stamens falter.
Finally the bee takes the plunge into the blossom,
clogging her pistil,
so as not to be deflected
as not to be rejected.
Serendipitous: the suction and stinging of the bees.
They steal the honey of a spasm,
then fly away singing.

She:
torpidly tickled, transiently tasted, penetrated.
Tumultuous extortion.
Emptied of the sugar
that had been churning and stagnating.
Filled with a new substance, (which only makes the next batch sweeter).
Noxious? The nausea would lead the little Lilly to believe so
as she vomits forth her striped lover's seed.
The ground takes kindly to her pain.

Only after the pollination
do the flashes of each volupta, (discovered by the pesky probing of female stigma,)
play themselves out:
the voluptas which linger as lackluster love-lint on the legs of the bees,
like the traces of lipstick on shirt collars.
But Lilly does not weep. Lilly does not weep.
Delicately shakes her pollen-drunk head,
smoothes pollen from her petals, and awaits the next dance.
Only Rose demurely puts forth a thorn,
and paradoxically puts forth moan
in the throes.

In the thrall
everyone falls.