Hola, my Closest. I can tell you, I can talk to you, I can calculate my most favourable hour for you, now that you are drifting in the fog of memory like a ghost ship with its siren song.
Or even more, when the sun flattens again and lures the surfers to the beach. Everything goes its own way, the more Gypsy the more diffuse a single piece from the nomadic ring game.
Solar flakes tinge my day, the spring wind, the Canary fever, the vents of passion are a piece of the puzzle of the maelstrom in which I find myself barely capable of playing doctor. Antonin Artaud's Theatre of Cruelty and Sartre's God of Slaughter wait and scratch under the palm trees.
Everything is happy when the pussy tastes good, when existence awakens anew.
So we collect the hopes, the rubbish on the beaches is more numerous than the turtle eggs, decadent last century, how I will miss you.
But before, but for a long time and without ceasing I want to kiss you, salty sweet Sandoka, sometimes as a girl, sometimes as a wild man. I want to be your threesome and your poly family, I want to change roles like your knickers disappear from the washing line in the kitchen wing of the military camp.
I can see how you bring out all the colours of the world in this world, your skin glows with longing, your breath is like a discovery that other people make sense, that it would be worth marrying with the atoms of the outside.
Salute call the nights, let's sail to Mexico, stay below deck until we are stranded wherever the currents take us, on this journey my poet's heart beguiles you.
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My eager little clitoris made of testosterone, my nutritional emergency in the anoxia of the blinded dreamer.
Trust me to make you eternal, I have the twist to admire you, I can paint you just by thinking you into immortality, you're in the collective frenzy, in Jung's lab faster than you start moaning.
And already you're mine, in my syllable ride, you're peeling off the common property into the traverse of the mockingbird of my nerdy inner pan. I am your Daddy Issue Truth, everything dissolves, we knot around in the big worlds, it snows rainbows, forget what we drank in La Palma.
The journey begins, the brooding comes to an end, you are invoked, a memory of the lovely in the meditative silence, a rose of Jericho, from the moment you triggered me until your place is empty again, cruel gypsy from outer space.
We are in MontMatre. We roam through old sureales enthusiastically before it disintegrates into postmodernity. Your body is my studio.
Princess of Wands is what Crowley called you
I give you Reasons to leave, and you give me Reasons to live. The eternal sinful game. No Taliban will ever understand us, at least not in official dialogue.
Besides all the silky touchpoints, it's still mostly just the enchanting conversations, the laughter out of nowhere, how you inspire my cooking, what you're able to think about while everyone else in the largest possible radius decides to sleep.
I'm afraid at every moment of this sinking that you're just the next illusion. The next Disney lie, the poison from the closet of Dorian Grey.
Dolphins are amazed when you climb the mast, whales compose hymns to your cries of pleasure.
You've been helping to eroticise the seven seas since your first swim, you kick me cute for all this exaggeration, but you seem to be growing mermaid body parts, you're a Merida in Ariel.
And every freckle is another amazement at how noble DNA can be.
From Asian to Irish and back again. In each of you many I found fucking happy sadness. If you don't want to come, never, so that it never ends.
To this day, youth stuck in this pilot film without virtue, without the moral of the story. I am the portal for the cosmic girl, no one whips so delicately.
The cave behind the waterfall and its pattering.
Come back, my Parzival
you whisper in the dark, in that empty space between the lines.
All the fails to hold me. Moi
Ayida and Damballah!!! We twitch and twitch and twitch and ejaculate into ourselves.
The Colosseum slowly empties, the underdogs trot away.
A lion plays with the rest of us.
You don't die so quickly and the brain continues to create images of what is happening around us for days. Now many people will feel very uncomfortable thinking about what they might have said or done in the presence of a dead person.
But for us it's easy, remnants of booing and clapping hardly enrage when all you get is a split skull from which a contented panther licks.
I shouldn't have trusted the Christians, now it's definitely over before I ever fucked them.
But back to the very last present, to the only thing that will ever exist, the short free time of your being.
I try to find your hand in the black in the black, the lost backpack of our flirtation. I was a fool to limit you, no chain can do you justice, no etiquette can explain what just feels.
And like the dumbest of the dumb, I'll try again and again, living up to all the myths, I'll give a holy whore my long deformed heart for a holy duration in the holy whore heaven of the Submarine Sorbonne.
Shaking your head, you put me on mute. A thousand messages later, you give up and sit with me in this railway station cafe. Ukraine, somewhere. Not far away, the nationalists are firing their nationalist surrogates into the world.
The best coffee can't go far with disgusting water.
I'll let you suck my fingers. You can see the clamps on your nipples under the see-through blouse.
Selenski gives a speech on the nineties television. A giant of a man enters the restaurant. Crockery rattles.
You continue to suck unperturbed, ever more vulgar and yet never denying the innocence that all this must have.
I like your Russian accent in the French-English-German mixture with which you explain to me that I shouldn't expect too much.
But not me
We both have to grin maniacally.
