Wednesday, May 25, 2011


Switching position is like a crawling intermission on white sands of pulchritudinous allure. Dangerous clashes between bommies and the thrusting shore, lighthouse flashing submarine periscope ogling the naked frame. “Rugueux sans la serviette,” all hands on deck with their left they just tuck and they rub pretentious mirth to drown their steel tossing cabins filled with polaroids and calendars and play cards and macaroons. Their imagination tossed by a torrent of craves into unfathomable depths hearing nothing but echoes of gripping thighs sailing down her inner monsoon, moans of expedition as she kicks over castle ruins. Grits in gold locks, sandals on a hermit crab’s back to the dune a wet fitting room. Pulsating as the mighty siren trail her nails like a trident dragging on the ocean bed. Blood, sweat, tears as rose pedals and bright stars celebrate the confidence of firework splashes, of free fall organs and rollercoaster up hills. Strike the fuse leads to the trinitrotoluene and tango to the percussion set of her most sensitive spots. Cannes lifts her bosom and moons the bay, only to reflect a flaming passion, a careless devour of consequential motives. A kaleidoscope of undefined poses and Indian praises lavish the pores exhuming saltwater only to amplify sensations. A hummingbird’s heartbeat pumping the rhinoceros horn in the heated avalanche of a fertile cave. Perhaps in another lifetime, this could last forever, like the names they added and the bottled letters they enshrined, on and under the tree. Who knows, maybe the docking men will have the last laugh but none of that matters, right now and now and now.

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