/         it's like being a fish, prodded
        by a fishing hook!

absolutely no lethargy!

    and you go into the kitchen,
eat up yesterday's cabbage dill infused
broth
   with dill infused soft boiled
potatoes...

and out of the fancy...

make yourself a french toast...
that piece of bread,
soaked in egg, a pinch of salt,
and fried,

     later "imagined"
  with a decent dollop of crème fraîche
and a drizzle of honey...

and... given that you wake up
in a furnace of a room facing sunrise...
walking to the end of the garden
where there's a patch of
naked soil...

           in nothing but your boxer shorts,
lying down in a crux form,
having that most authentic:
   prenup cigarette having
just eaten...

               under an eucalyptus tree,
bothered as to why bees
seem to misjudge evergreen trees
as ever being in the possession
of flowers...

then fiddling with your 9kg cat on
your knee,
       trying to clean him from
garden debris...

                        then feeding
him three pieces of raw pork...

      and then starting a drinking session
at 20 minutes past 7am.

the french toast though?
      that ****'s just magic...
   like "attempting" to drink mineral water
having boiled some tap water...
can't buy a brioche bun, or a croissant?

   kramer vs. kramer shortcut:
dip some white bread
in pre-scrambled-egg-goo,
                                     and fry it...

     but lying almost naked on
the breathing earth pre-july englush sun
reaching its despotic zenith of
an afternoon?

                       1 point to be precise:
shame my *** didn't make contact with
this: extraordinary cool breath of
a trans-geological marriage.