Cannabis and Beignets

Cannabis and Beignets    
     The misery of a grease splatter while deep frying beignets makes me long for Bourbon Street in spring. Then the low slung jeans return to haunt my hallowed soul with peeks into a Kyoto of maiden but cut and move on to the next scene. There hippies go naked over cannabis while the smoke tortures their inner Puritanism.    
     It is like the incense in a church for mellow mushrooms where even the priest must get high on his authority to marry former lingerie models who walk the wedding aisle like a runway in a make or break fashion show. A confection of affection sprinkles my fried dough until the meltdown of nucleotides turns my core into a beating heart of love.  
     But my French pastry munchies have me twisted like a Bavarian pretzel in need of German beer to go down. My breakfast kicks and screams to be born into a Love Canal where even the frogs get blessed with extra toes to web around with. On this Louisiana morning the eaves drop with a short wave from Radio Moscow whose siren seduces the radar of my ear for espionage over tea and crumpets. But no teatime is complete without raspberry tarts dined on with the stiff upper lip of a true Brit.    
     But I am in need of a reefer to give me the upper hand in my battle with the blues. When my earl grey and biscuits bleed like a virgin the strawberry jamboree will sing to my palate with a taste like the fruit of Eden torn from the branch of the wailing tree.
Written by goldenmyst
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