The Fog

Wet feet lightly tiptoe through the chilly grass.

There’s a dreamlike quality to this night, as the fog sets into the moonlit garden.

Nadia pauses at a rose. One of those gut feeling tells her to run, but she’s frozen solid as fear grips her tightly.

Moving, she screams as her beloved kitty pops out of the tree and becomes entangled in her nightie.

Rosary Beads

You know you’re fucking it all down to the ground with your vacant looks and your fish faced stare.

Then you spoke! I was someone else for a moment; engaged in gossip like a groupie infested with lust for fame and shiny gold plated bling.

What became of my intellectual underpinnings, a desire for books to enclose around me, and that rebel we-don’t-understand vibe?

Is it I who was mistaken when I judged you too soon? Are filled lips just as tasty as regular lips? Are vacant looks filled with more sorrow than A Picture of Dorian Gray?

I’m now bleeding philosophical perspiration from my pores. It’s flowing down into the stormwater drains to the sea.

I’m perspiring Aristotle, Foucault, Nietzsche and more. I’m infecting the sea with philosophy.

Should I worry that rich people with yachts will touch the water I infected and find Bitcoin boring?

Will they walk in a different direction or put down their Versace cushions to move about looking at the sky and the sea as they mutter eccentrically?

Would people think they were being touched by an angel, or would they melt at the thought of the devil?

Standing and speaking to this rather fashionable Nun, I’m unable to speak for a moment as her words creep over me.

She holds the rosary beads up to my height and I feel that childhood pew. My knees suffered on that wood for sins I hadn’t even committed.

Then she said, “You’re a wicked one the way you think too much. The devil will get you in the end.

Miss Nun jolted me out of my musings and back to the dark. Without warning, words escaped my lips as I walked away, “Well if you see the Pope you can tell him I want a refund for all those rosary beads I had to buy as a kid. They didn’t work…

Spatula Pad

The night is young, yet the mansion is ready for the party.
He’s been planning this well & thinking it through all week.
Not one to shy away from the strange & obscene, he thinks of some party tricks.
Ladies are many & boggle his mind, for he sees himself as an urban Casanova.
Unable to settle for one love, he prefers to love in threes or fours.
The time arrives, the guests are bouncing, & the party is swinging about.
Beauty abound & lovely young sights, he thinks of nibbling on chocolates or rose water delights.
Tricks do begin, but it’s the usual tosh, yet he’s thinking about what he can do.
With weird ideas swirling & too much bourbon soaking, he goes to the kitchen & thinks, “What do I have & what do I need to get my perversions on track?”
Looking & looking, he opens the cupboards & draws with swirling thoughts plaguing his mind. Staring about, but not yet drawing attention, he grabs three sturdy blue spatulas.
Like Houdini on crack or DMT, he makes frosting enough for three cakes.
It’s causing some giggles & a few weird looks, but he’s too fucked in the head to agree.
The frosting is made, it tastes like a sweet dream, so he lines the bowls up on the bench.
He waits for the prudes & the boring to leave until ten of the lovelies remain.
Once properly pinched & appropriately plucked to shine bright, he smears frosting all over the nymphs. Once frosted, he moves in & starts to carnally satisfy his longing for sweets.
There’s frosting about & in places unseen, yet he beats his best record of four.
With ten lovely ladies all over him now, he’s a man in a heaven of sorts.

Cullender of Colander

At home she rinses the vegetables in the Colander.  The water washes over the vegetables, then down through the holes, and into the drain to head for the water treatment plant.  Once the water arrives it is treated and cleansed so that humans can consume the resource again.

You stand in the kitchen talking to her about how unsuitable she is to cook you food and how everything about the two of you is disintegrating. She wonders what you are on about, or if you have lost the plot.

Unable to deal with your talking after many attempts to obtain a resolution, she turns the Colander into a Cullender, places your head in it, and washes water over you until you cool down.

Now that you are her vegetable, all the rubbish flows down through the drain to head for the water treatment plant. Perhaps they can clean up your bullshit.

 

Planking

To

      plank is to be free from the constraints of society and do something peculiar –                   something no one really understands, but certain people like to do.

To

      be with you is something different and new.

To

      plank for you sets my heart on fire and my ears buzz.

To

      plank on the chocolate biscuits of your love is so sweet, as we contort and                           crumble all over the floor.

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