Repas de quartier, juillet

There’s too much garlic in the gazpacho.
Our hostess tells us her age and flashes her bra.
The priest from Goma says
that as a remedy for hemorrhoids
he inserts a whole garlic clove into his anus.
I look sad. I should go to Compostelle.

I have no interest in Les chansons françaises,
therefore the man opposite says I have
nothing in my head. I have an IQ of 144.
The goat's cheese seeping from its waxy skin
reminds him of a flaccid penis.
I flee to the gay couple on the swinging chair.

God, deliver us from evil
and from rural neighborhood meals.