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Aug 2018
Her flamingo feet flinging,
tipping, and kicking men into a flutter

It’s them or me—that thunder; I’ll ******.

I’m stirred up and monologue-ing:
smoky lungs deeply stroking hot fires freely stolen.

Exhale, esteemed son.

******* then concentration:
spot all the dealings—
drop-top feelings.

Our collective discourse;
collaborative, of course.

Force a real proper steal,
and linger on a plate we should sit down to, chew, perhaps do a few…
clarinets blow.

Meditations of the wise ones on the side:
low-key surmising ways to go in—
flipped-up mentality—
and come out: hot pop quality;
positively in great quantity.

Society watching the mood I’m mixing: an addiction
feeding her every volition.

Feeling just a little out of place
in that space—
convicted of an ****** condition.

Shaded off-site: centered.

Focused.

That cocktail’s swooping in slyly,
cold-sweating,
then creeping on hot.

No choice but to vibe to it,
ride through it,
and arrive at a certain point.

Cursive lines make me curse the times
where there’s nothing left
except rational satisfaction.

Her lips unfold—were they really yours to hold?

Choose: tonight or tomorrow?
Sleep or sweep her off those feet?

Slowly dose it.

Easy swinging,
steady hanging;
chasing wonder.

Always the smell of rains
staining them wavy blue.
Written by
Ken Rafiñan  28/M/Philippines
(28/M/Philippines)   
  4.3k
   Santita
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