December 19, 2011

Behind the catsup roses...

There you are, behind that minted glass, that honeycomb slab, that watermelon oyster -it is you.

And again you are there behind my sleepy head at midnight, in bed, in a car, in the middle of California my dreams.
There, in that booth, at that table, behind that light, in the dark as that Liberachi toothed hormone drenched 3 olives please cocktail does this "wonder twin power activate" trick in my throat right at that exact second... 
- the second I see you and walk forward and smile and put my lips to that brim and sip... the sip becomes a brick and I am left choking on large chunks of my own stupidity. 
Looser. Idiot. Reject. Duh.
In this compromised state I imagine the never to manifest elegance of these repelled advances as one bead after another flits across the icy surface of your taught body like a broken string of pearls  
all then wrapped in foils, coveted - and devoured later by some imaginary audience who compete for trophies of this poignant tale when that leaded velvet curtain drops
And then back. There you are again, that toothy moment has let go of your jugular, the drama and the oysters and the pearls have receded along with the expectation that this story will ever have a red velvet curtain at all.

So we sit, and I photograph you through the frosty water jug and fall in love with this new portrait as together we make tiny catsup roses in the bottom of a silver cup.

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