Le Cordon Bleu sommelier in the know
Discussed wine pairing with patrons aglow
"What does your order include?"
"Roast turducken frankenfood"
"Then I recommend a dry Portmanteau!"


© 2020 Mark Toney.  All rights reserved.

He might bite down on it,
The glass between his lips
Swirling red with wine he swallows
While fixing withering glares
At me, who only points out the obvious
As the guests murmur among themselves,
Unaware of our little argument
That cracks the glass in my hand,
Seeping little red rivulets
Stain the white cloth underneath
As I smile, sharp teeth glinting.
He never looks away, a reassurance even when we curse one another.
Regardless of what we do, we won’t shatter.

The more I undress you
The more you are in light
As the half-burnt moon come out from the clouds
It fell on your rising ******* in my hand
Then slide across the undulations
Down to the river
From where rises the gypsy madness and the wild smell of a primitive surrender
Oracles are born then
I can hear them, even you
As we make love
In our body dances
The Mediterranean wine.

"Your lips are like honey, and your kisses are like wine." She whispered as she sat on my forearm in her thin sweatpants.

She was right.

My words are sweet,
and cap hearts like a breast,
in golden amber.

Like wine,
my kisses stain,
if settled,
fermented,
way before she came.

From the bottom of the barrel
with previously crushed grapes.

Carry me away to some distant land That I could call, the City of Roses.

Where I would solve the mystery of love With wine without a whine.

It's been the longest time,
Since I've felt this alive.
So many years gone by
Since I've seen all these guys.

But on this day,  I rise,
When I was granted life,
To find my eyes surprised
By all their smiles and cries!

"Hey, happy birthday man! "
"It's been a long-*** time! "
"We planned ahead, and decided
To grab some whiskey and wine! "

And that was all it took,
To get it through my head,
That when this night was over
We'd likely do it again.

See, I'm a man with good friends,
I have a thirst I must quench,
And when Bacchus calls for me,
I always let the games begin!

And once these parties start,
They rarely, if ever, end.
And when the bottles do run dry,
Someone carries some more in.

"And every glass I take,  I do it not for me;"

"It's for His Majesty!"
"It's for His Majesty!"

Now it's the third warm night
And all the wine is gone,
The whiskey comes along,
And they break out in song:

"Another cup for mine!"
"Another night survived!"

"It's for His Majesty!"
"It's for His Majesty!

A vintner of aged leaves in the wine-press of the sun,
Thin-skinned like the lucent grapes from the vine-runs
Of the island trellises and teal-cordoned waves, lowest slung
Fruit-laden bough of sky, Sicily, whose ateliers of rolled cigarettes
And uprolled sleeves like tides tease smoke into studio paints,
The black apple wine of storm made into mouthfuls of pulp rain,
Before the sunrise is gathered again in fishing nets and crab pots,
The coastal towns with their salted roofs of pied clay and pigeons
Along the lava stone streets, and night from the chanteuse of Egypt,
Singing her coral to heron, as when her bird-like barefooted slaves
Left tracks across Old Kingdom wastes, so this dreaming old man
Leaves his wrinkles to these grapes and across the sand-island pillow,
Asleep with his fathers, hay-hauling peasants of wandering darkness.

Fruit goes off.
It gets mushy and smelly,
losing its colour and beauty - losing its taste,
eventually drying out,
losing all resemblance of what it once was,
only good for waste.

But fruit nurtured by a master grower,
a seasoned gardener,
fruit watched and watered til ripe and at its peak,
this fruit is harvested, fermented,
blended til building to a fuller physique,
brought to full maturity til ready for the table
and the banquet where no one's poor
and no-one is able to maintain a semblance of meek.

- where the gardener and the wine maker,
sit at the top seats smiling their blessing.
And the table branches out
giving room enough for the whole family gathering.

And the feast to end all feasts begins.

Intoxication won't bring solace.

Neither it bring back the person over whom you got intoxicated every single night...