HONEY MOON
"jumbo, freeze on
my cute black bra
wrapped in standard time,"
mamy was south sea tropical slut who
was a thief of shells and dubious collector of turbans. time was
running out as thousands of miles away the tahitian sun sunk sandily
low into the alcoholic seas and so mouton, that was his name, abused
himself and threw on the delicate cartesian oval on her intensive
free twin pears,
"aaaaahhhhhh,"
mamy yawned, the lucid animal that she wrought,
"that was good
and free of poison too
for you are the cleanest boy
i loved today and
the slowest, sour mouton," the sentimental urge of her throat was
like a half rhyme of french verse and leaped like the dour binding
of good old books at sleepy mouton who was licking his fingernails.
"quelqu'une des voix
toujours angelique . . ."
she landed on her toes and danced to the
lamped table and with her red fingers from the paint on the bed posts
that she painted at dawn because
"it is no excuse
to want color and
expect the police to
give it to you. so. . ."
and wrote the silk check for the thousand dollars on the gray thick
mesh of an old nylon. in deep true black one thousand dollars of course
with a little red like the muted prints of a wounded but happy tiger.
"come let us go
quick, quick, quick,
put on your shoes and
sleep for now your savage
loins. here, mouton, one thosand dollars, all
yours to kiss me. come quick kiss me and
lets go outside and sun ourselves and have
fun. mouton, do put on your pants. aimee . . ."
there was no focal point to
reflect into now, because mamy was trenchant, and emerge naked as
before. mouton scampered around the room looking under the sheets
behind the fruit curtains under the bottles (if they were empty then
ali baba and his fourty thieves are only half true) of burgundy and
yellow port wiped the dust off the dark varnished table and leaped
into the dry air looking for the focal timorous point of his
unimportant playful escape.
"i can't find it!"
he dropped to the floor slightly exhausted
and high from the jumping and the kisses he showered on mamy
on the way down. mamy was exhausted too but played with her green
tropical shells under her modern dress.
there is no aim to the scotch-and-soda motion of cute children playing in
the front of a philharmonic bedroom orchestra and as mamy was in her
expectant sweet brushes, mouton dressed and suited himself in the
most precious and medieval armor of his magic cloister by the rococo
and wide lampshade hung from the light ceiling. gray corduroy pants
a sweater of lamb hair one beret fitted under the windings of a palm
and a pair of rusty sneakers that gave sounds like the jazz fiddle
in a cuban band. and some coins mouton made himself with a sharp
steel knife.
slam!
mouton reached back opened the door again and
slam!
"you
and your noises!
can't you be satisfied with
music?"
"no!!"
mamy's palm had kisses for mouton as he stripped her from
her place and they ran like two skiers in a fierce snow down the
stairs
leaping
cajoling each other's smiles and cheeks,
stumbling purposely to catch mamy's fullest fruits in his
native's hands
running down the stairs in a curious sprint with a thousand
dollar check in someone's pocket, the artificial coins. the money
that was purely mouton's cast a steely band of wedding gifts about
their palms and this swayed like coconuts held to a lose island.
the door to the outside jerked opened in mamy's pupils braced
like stallions to catch the sun and the city reflections and mouton
bent a little to whisper in his tongue's language. the light was
soft and the dry dust borne by the sun settled a while ago on the
cool wet film of the pavement.
"oh,
it is night,"
mamy said.
poetry
directory
return
to top
hotpiehot's
next dream
