Hot as Heat

It's hot as heat here and we didn't expect it to come so early.
The mosquitoes are eatin our arms like hell and even the restaurants are sweaty like Lousiana.
People are everywhere, running around like animals, crazy as prostitutes, bewitched, bothered and bewildered. That's what happens when things heat up so quick.
What was ice melts so fast and then you never espect the thick glaze of the sun to soak into every speck of dirt and crack the land that way. That's the stuff earthquakes is even made of. Shifting, sudden shifting, suddenly in the night, cotton shifts take the place of thick blankets that so soon ago held out the frost.
The motel parking lots blaze like pools of hellfire and brimstone. At two in the morning cars speed like rockets, confused to the lanes, screaming electric thumps from ipods. The age creeps onto the faces of the older ladies at lunchtime, they can't hide their histories or their fret. (Oh how I never want to be that thing) Clothes shrink like withered plants, leaving limbs all bare, some pretty and lusty, some hideous as dying cheese. Curses spit from the lips of the traitors like little razors, white-hot.
The donuts melt, the cars shriek, the sidewalk could cook an egg. The hair sweeps out of eyes like piles of honey and curly. The good priss-tians ice their homes endlessly, mindlessly with so much carefree carbon dioxide that by September they may easily take out one or two ancient arctic glaciers.
The slugs dry up, the flowers flop, the sawdust sticks to skin, the teenagers scramble, the ice cream cones play magic tricks.
Girls shuffle their feet together at rooftops, staring out at the forever moon, a white bucket so heavy it could fall at any moment. They drink from flasks and share the tales of lips and liquor. The boys hang at old stomping grounds, stare like cats and dogs, boys pretend they don't care, panting at passerby hips.
The moon sings robust and dark, sweet and wicked, cool and soft.
The sun shrieks like a raven demon, content to fire us all to see his holy self take over and have everything be as he is.
I dream like a lost little girl of nailpolish and diaries, coffeeshops and poetry, but mostly, I dream about when I see eyes like magic.