Like the precocious strawberry, You come wild in the forest; Bright vermillion, crunchy seeds, citrous tongue; Briefly there; suddenly, Like a miracle of nature, You're Gone.
The ghost of my last lover is still with me; Her lips, her skin; her smile Spreading out for the corners of her mouth, Like golden rays of sun. Her body is swaying close to mine, As we walking arm-in-arm, Her long blonde hair tickling my skin. Her ghost is here with me, Loving me, questioning me. She is in the shower; Water bouncing her beautiful curves. I wash her. She looks into my eyes and says: "Do you still love me?"
The writer must write! But first the writer must piss, So the writer goes for a piss and come back to write. The writer must drink! So the writer drinks and resumes writing. The writer must smoke! And so the writer smokes And writes. The writer drinks And smokes And writes. The writer writes. The writer drinks ouzo with water and ice. The writer smokes marijuana. The writer is dizzy, Listening to crazy, abstract jazz, Floating on a sea of anise perfumed waves.
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