Seductive lip-lickers. Dark haired vixens mix liquors, with things they shouldn’t have stirred.
To space the space less or to catch the quickest, a strangers satisfaction is assured.
Though no strangers name will have been left forgotten when two ticking minds will have met
The pretense of post-come and aftershock of release will make any idle feel spent.
In an empty saloon, or unearthed, on the moon, surely all eyes must at some point meet.
Whether naked or clothed, or half-assed half dressed in a robe, stepping on each other’s feet.
When infinity stops and time’s last stop has dropped and the stop clock is cracked to shards.
The breaths that are blown will fill the sky to the lid and the gambler will see all the cards.
From the hoof of the man with the cane on his head who steps in a costly hat top
He’ll never lick the lips of a drunken vixen, he never was a stranger, more likely, a cop.
And the streams of tickets left hung around gamblers, and drink mixers and shadow men
He lives ,only in dreams, but when the sky is all full, all he can ever do is pretend.
08/18/2010. ~7:10AM but revised on 09/09/2010.
Dry flexible humor/seriousness/whichever you prefer with an intent to rhyme ridiculously with fast pace.
