Saint Valentine

Saint Valentine must be a pimp,
with fish swimming in his platforms,
with big-ass sunglasses,
with syncopated rhythms,
stolen from pink cards

Saint Valentine must be an angel,
Drifting through azure and sangria,
bestowing unbeknown wonders on those who believe,
believe in the unforgettable,
and dream of their deep city dreams.

Saint Valentine must be a sadist,
taunting us, those without,
those who just want to live this day like any other
enjoying the jealous looks thrown,
thrown like a towel into the ring.

Saint Valentine must want love to prevail,
he created this day for you and me,
for him and her, him and his, they and them,
to forget that would be disappointingly human,
and yet I am forced to by exigencies of the service,
to sit this one out, even when,

Saint Valentine’s all of these things,
to all of us,
its up to us to believe,
in this Clausian charecter,
that a rose deliever’d by a burst of light,
through the ether that is Fibre-Optic,
that a cheap card, dinner and 2 kisses,
1 lip/1 cheek,
or just the simple Happy V-Day *Just like in ’45*
still works.

It works. It just does.

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