My animals live in your zoo

Nothing to say. Or maybe there is.

Of the innumerable peccadilloes cast in the metallic sheen of a trinkety necklace draped across newly acquired razorlight collarbones.

My body, My hand
My heaven, My land
My guardian angel is mine

Of vespery Tête-à-tête sessions with sudoku solving-vegan loveboys who possess 3 digit IQs and not, the  incessantly punch-holed or graffiti-ed bodies.

My dreams, My head
My sex, My bed
And it’s my Corona with lime

Of caramel locks gathered in a lacksdaiscal knot, gently kissed by a ”Cajun Sunrise”.

My hate, My frown
My kingdom, My crown
My palace and court is mine

Of lilac  frocks inducing ecstacy equivalent to a lone Schubertian ricercar streaming across an unusually lax day.

My lights, My show
My years to grow
The time that I spend is fine

Of Haagen-Daz fuelled existence.

My coat, My hat
My bones, My fat
My zipper is shut by me

Of  curiously splashed vermillion across a stark forehead and also of delicate rosary beads dangling from an inherited baroque mirror.

My Skin, My blood
My devil, My God
My freedom is what You see

Of a life currently drenched in cachaca, whiffs of Dolce Vita, mood stabilizing shakes, Zamhir’s “Doina de l’Amour” and kickboxing sweat.

My beginning, My end
My nuclear bomb to pretend…..

~ by iconoplastic on May 3, 2007.