Capulet
Sat upon the grass next to Julian's parents’ grandiose house
Pretending to be most unassuming and as quiet as a spouse
Their own clean dewy cut blades reduced to a manageable level
Suited for his parents to step onto again and again, dishevel
Again and again, leaving patches of dry strangled
Brown, remnants of our withered love under the
Depression of soul of soles of their handmade
Leather boots from Verona, Italy—as if it would
Impress me.
I glance casually at the inflated dancing vignette silhouettes
Against the orange window like dancing black marionettes
I see your mother, slim, tall and in the light eulogized serpent
With a matching tongue, wreathing and hissing feculent ferment
Unheard words of ill-informed judgment about
What kind of girl I am and oh what a handsome
Boy you are, you deserve better than that scum
On my lawn, how about that girl who has those
Wealthy parents.
You are there, too, slightly cut from view by the damnable plush
Curtains, your fetching suave extremity magnified and so lush
Despite the shadowy delineation demeanor. Your so called mum
Was right about one thing at least, you are impeccably handsome
And it almost makes me doubt whether I actually am
Fit for you… no, the virago vituperator is getting to me
It troubles me how such a fetid womb could produce
A putti babe such as yourself, yet it plants no seeds of
Doubt into my mind.
The voices grow forte and the streetlights flicker hither thither
On this midsummer night on Montague Row. I now can hear slither
And your defending bellows shaking the ostentatious chandelier
To and fro, I am grateful; you take your mother’s blood and smear
It in her horse jawed face, you want to be with me,
And I with you and nothing her austere intimidation
With her piles of blood money and mounds of mud
Runny from her meddlesome backside visage could
Ever change that.
18-Oct-2013 16:30:30 - Last edited on 18-Oct-2013 17:28:30 by Cyun