Passion is without reason. If you are thinking about it or using logic, it is not passion. To be on fire without burning but seared on the outside. And inside, it is juicy, moist and red. And when the heart breaks it’s as if the rare meat, a blood filled carcass has been cut too soon and torn into without resting first, leaking out vitality and flavor. A loss of senses, dull and dry. Tasteless.
A flame without oxygen, fire without air. Dried, cracked clay, earth without water. Elements and elemental. Bougainvillea burgeoning tantamount to the bourgeois. Cherry bombs made of kisses like bomb-pop bon-bons while your tongue melts into your taste buds.
Flavors and sprinkles of teeter totters and monkey bars. The first sensation of the bottom being taken out from underneath that place. The briefest of previews of what you feel years later. Rapid inclines and deepest descents, less than an ounce of the full weight of an orgasm.
Monkey bass, horse face, it takes all kinds. Generally speaking, I am the most insecure person you will ever meet but never know. Anu, Jhedu, Hassan, and Kifah. Maria, Jose, Juan and Candelaria. McGee’s closet of the mind, keep it locked unless it’s safe then unleash that mother fucker like a boss.
A feline frenzy on a train under pine trees lit up with angels, saints, and Quasimodo. Mowtoe, soto, root, claw of dagger, dragon egg skin, flaws, claws and talons. Bent earth facing the indigo backdrop. Eyes made of stars centered around me with you in the center staring toward me staring inward at them.
Persona non-grata, nothing is free. It’s been here like a handout all along like juicy fruit gum unwrapped releasing a running zebra covered in rainbow velvet hide. It’s the good stuff. The zilch, abstract, upside down, inside out, comprehensive Escher world that in fact exists because in that juicy center – that bloody pit of you, everything exists and all that is nothing. Red shiny jellybeans dropping upward like tarantula bubbles dripping into moleskines.
Underground within the grotto where the grotesque is the most beautiful image you will meet but never know since that is what I am, grotesque to you and to myself and to God who has left me. The ALL who strips away everything and takes and takes and takes. The defamer farmer of cats who skins my very own feline. Juicy tooth fairies, very Annie Merries, a millimeter-allowed distance that the nose can be from the mouth to the sky in the rye.
Payment due to the one who paints the sky every few days, packages it and makes it safe for the masses. Give and take and pull and push, round and round, incessant patterns of holy moldy cheese. Holy Moldy, Raisin Brand, Bologna cartwheels on the edge of the sea, three waves in, a flat pop up book made of greasy things. Must be kept frozen but condensation is forming on my uvula. My good man, just castrate my tonsils and tear what we hold on to, let them slide down my throat, down, down, down between my…
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