House of Heart
Drab morning, no aperitifs.
Someone left a suitcase monster filled with Marihuanilla.
You are still sleeping, opened to my peeping eye,
your auburn hair anarchistically fanned out on the pillow.
I put on Monk and return to serious business,
rolling overweight Mexican calumets and
while I meditate on the perfect shape of your breasts
I inhale to wed my self to life again.
Three joints later all has become lovelier and
I bow down to make lips meet. “Coffee, my sweet?”.
You bite my ear, ” frappé!”
I smile, ” oh, Greek”.
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