Slightly differently tuned, artfully out of tune,
these unforgiving female ferocities
form their flowing musical spatiality
of a glaring stockhausenesque brilliance
at inconvenient hours;

a distressing power-poison pain,
risen out of the swamps of the netherworlds,
minuscule samurais of the morning,
as wee as the hour,
arriving from hell
through any and all cracks
in your domestic defenses;

avengers of the air pressure,
penetrating you at will
with their subcutaneous injections
of anticoagulants;

bloodthirsty battalions of whining brutes,
hideous hardliners
gallantly evading your hurried hands,
the intense clapping of which,
never a sign of appreciation
for the wailing songs
of these airborne falsettos
in their poison-powered planes
of northern summers,

turning favorite locations,
such as gardens and bedrooms
into scary areas
you'd best evacuate and avoid

'cause if you're the bull,
they're the soaring picadors;

they rise on the thermals of your body heat,
and you are gravity's prisoner of war