the Owl and all of his rare books
& his company still not letting me go
my eyes hiding from the curious world going by
drinking in all of the beauty and oddities
I couldn't get myself to leave.
So I sat there
pretending I was Eckhart Tolle and homeless
like I was the Buddha under an old tree
like a new defiant strong blossom sprouting from a crack in the well worn dirty sidewalk
My discipline was not to leave until I had come up with 4 erotic metaphors
to describe how the sun felt...
... on my face
... on my naked thighs as the water washed over them earlier
... on that mans face as he ate a strawberry as he walked by barefoot
and now on the bench with the smell of black leather and hot shoe glue filling my nostrils.
The words flowed like a hot clenching peak of wet exploding sinful dessert wearing dark sunglasses.
They say songs are not poems set to music,
I say, never underestimate the power of the tongue when used skilfully
Especially when you write delicious words it helped form onto paper
that may one day be put to music.
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