Tomato Juice
Posted on: Friday, January 11th, 2019
Hot is my tongue by the summer, and so are the shoulders of my lover.
(Soulful, he is to me– the man not naked as the sun.
Lo! See, thee interrupts the arcane. Magic Man!)
I remember meeting his never-lonely fire when the world was a blur,
And stayed, he did, until the dirt made sense. (Finally, finally, somebody flaming enough to stay!)
I am, then, parched. Patched, I ask– Is there something around other than the mayhem?
Ain’t the liking grand when, with the heart, it’s always escalating?
My pastel-loving baby, pink, hatches me just by the way he smiles from the grotto.
I pray for prosper. How I wish I could address ‘im ten more times in a day.
(I pour a drink for myself, thinking about ‘im.) Finally, finally.
I really wanted to scream… Scream my thanks about ‘im!
Solo Mania… SOLO MANIA…
May my tongue not fail me.
May my tongue not scale.
How’s it-‘en,
I still remember how, in youth, nothing is important but everything is important, too, to the immediate. I imprint
My intermediate soul to a craving soul. Mind to mind, body to body. But the heart yearns to earn about doing more.
But it also knows what Time cannot give, and is wise enough to not disappoint, and never to patronize.
I do not want to have to be proud in the lack of prowess and progress. I do not dream to skip nor dip,
Nor do I want anybody who is important to have to feel all guilty and shit.
All I could ask for is ten more minutes. And, if still craving, another ten more minutes.
peut ma langue pas échouer moi
peut ma langue pas échouer moi
peut ma langue pas échouer moi
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