you said i was exotic,
and i said ooo
what do you mean?
exotic like a fruit?, like
i don’t know what tropics
you think i came from, was
imported from, but you read
my skin like the label
on a flavour of coca-cola
you had never been
offered before and i
was refreshing, and
different. and you liked
the way my coke-bottle
curves felt beneath your
fingertips, said you’d never
tasted caramel
like me before,
you said i was exotic.
like i was a work
of west african art,
even though my mother’s
from the east, like
i was from a storybook like
1001 african nights, like,
you saw my cover and you were
hooked, never did think to
look beneath the jacket,
just wanted stories like the
ones scheherazade sold,
i was your sheba
and you my solomon.
we rode lions across
the sands, your kiss
was salt on my lips,
i needed to quench
my thirst and you offered
me the brand new flavour
of coca-cola.

you said i was exotic,
like a pretty foreign thing,
some mail-order thing,
special delivery
just for you,
a flavour of coca-cola that you
had never tasted before.

A crisp cold can of coke
I like writing about coca cola
It's my favorite drink to drink
There's something so good about writing it
A crisp cold can of coke
It springs to mind and to tongue like coke from a soda fountain with a simple depression of the little lever
Nothing is more evocative than the crack, snap, or pop of a crisp cold can of coke
It brings forth fond memories
Of childhood and summer and my ex girlfriend and my grandma
And some of my favorite artists too
Andy Warhol and Frank O'Hara for example
I like to think they share my sentiment
That there's almost nothing better than a crisp cold can of coke
It's something so American and something so mine
There's nothing I'd rather have on hot or a cold day
Then a crisp cold can of coke

The sun was furious,
It was scorching hot,
I hobbled along the sidewalk with my heavy school bag.
I was dripping with sweat,
At last I reached home,
I threw my bag on the landing
and headed to the kitchen.
Man, I was thirsty,
I always had juices or sodas,
I opened the freezer,
A lonely icy can of coca-cola stood there,
It winked at me,
With arms stretched it cajoled,
"Take me buddy,guzzle me in one go",
Mum was in the kitchen peeling potatoes,
I looked at her,
Her look was blank.
I grabbed the coke,icy in my hands,
Cool,Cool coke, ah !At last,
I lifted the tin to have a sip,
With lightning speed mum stood up,
She snatched the can from my hands,
I gasped and stared at her,
With a cute,loving smile,
She handed me a glass of  water from the JUG.
"Come on son! Today SURPRISE YOUR LIVER.

Sometimes my thoughts get the better of me.
Instead of being who we are, sometimes I wonder if we
were anything but who we are, who would we be. You know?
Would we still be destined to meet.
By some divine twist.
Would you happen to be the soda beside me and I were a set of lips.
Would purpose still play a big factor, knowing you'd
Be that essential thing that would fill this urge. Not because it would be just,
you know, something momentary just because it's there.
I'd never misuse you, 
Choosing to embrace you with the slightest touch.
The taste of something new, something refreshing.
Without fear that you'd be anything other than yourself.
Sweet, giving.
Hands wouldn't play apart of how much or how little you'd give
As I'd be grateful you thought enough of me to present yourself the way 
you have.
A clear bottle with red and white wrapping.
Lost in a ocean of dark brown

You choked on chariots raw. Red egg yolk suppers, churned of the milk oceans this morning you kept.
The lintel of stone turned toward dusk. Some great dynasty of submissive spirits catering your morning
Out on a cart of muse, forms of heaven cannot even hear you. You are a soporific knot in the tale of your Old womanhood. In this infinite Tuesday morning your small black eyes, like an oil tanker toppling over The intense azure sea- shipwrecked, and lost.

Departing from your childhood you slurp Coca-Cola from a silver straw. From the corner store and inside Winter yawns. There is no face, only strikingly beautiful black hair. The body under you is at home in all
My hand's fingers have to fill. All the clothes that you could carry for the two-way adventure. There are
Never enough bubbles between your lips and the glass bottle you have. Only the score of the whistleblower. And the poor symphony you had prayed for into the dial-tone phone, the deep Wilderness, that stiff forever-ago budding from your coffee cup. Neurogenesis lifted from your Fingerprints and emblazoned into this lump of human ingenuity. The hopeless octave that cut us all short.    

Every short story that was left untold. There are the brief deaths recoiling in your spiritual architecture. The ****** of morphia has bourn me awake. Inside you are often unscathed, vanishing as some of Tonight's parts assemble you, on you blue is a beautiful color. The sweet retreat that gave you life or the bountiful deaths that counted you too cutely by your side. You are the sun in my black coat. Here is my sea, your sea, you'll see.