CAFE FIGARO

 

i feel like talking tonight
reciting poetry to your big blue eyes
and raw pink mouth smiling
high as a wind whipped kite
discussing
art, ontology, and existentialism
sitting like lotus
at the
Cafe Figaro on McDougall st
in the west village
the  belly of a ghost
lost in a vagrant memory

afterwards
we go to a
little one bedroom flat in the east village
haunted by the vapors of history
a slight stench of mongrel tongue
a dripping toilet
and peeling walls
intimating births and funerals

after a hot bath
of lathered torsos
we would follow each other naked
winding around a table
into a swaying bed
that beckoned
fuck here my darlings

and i licked and drank out of your drenched
rose red blossom for hours
it licking back
salvaging my soul between your thighs
like a wounded dog whimpering
thanking god with every graze and thrust
you all supple shifting limbs
and
your company
your company
your sweet droplets
of company
a caressing balm

we looked in the mirror
reflecting on my secreted glistening face
all red raspberry
my lips emerald hydras
laughing our asses off at how artsy i looked
smeared
with your rust painted thighs
appearing as if half eaten by a cougar

and you growled swallowed  and
licked big butter stick
till your nose ran like the Ganges
gagging
eyes blood shot pools of fire
cooing and oowing
driving me maniacal
with every thrust of your wild glinting tongue

we poured our selves into each other
viscous creels gushing
coursing like tidal waving lava  
radiating

and finally worn to the marrow
we found ourselves drooping
our eyelids  leaden

the night mist fell upon us like breezing shade
and we drowsed
in careless embrace
our sex shriveled
like severed umbilici
two halves
toothed moons adrift