La bella mató a la bestia

It's June
horse races,
annual hat festival,
and a certain Tyson,
Mike,
got off the Metro at Ascot,
the Garden Terror,
(exhibited by Don King),
penguin suit
unforeign fashion,
strange firefly
on night white background
(and today ghost wandering
tattooed through my house),
and the truth, ma'am,
is that,
now inside the racetrack,
Tyson touched your arm,
and that,
at the same time as your iPod was going off,
and that before
the shouts under the tent,
and the consequent roar of the mass
and the Garden Terror
against 1,
against 100,
against 1,000,
against the rest,
against life,
and all of it before
my sheriff's badge
-- unproductive pedal-propelled Dodge --
and my last executioner's fear
after firing into a black's temple,
that is,
at the same time as his bubble world
and our crescendoing madness,
Skull Island,
I repeat, I saw it:
your son was also going off,
your iPhone was also going off:
Tyson just wanted to warn you.