What was all that fuss about smashing pumpkins and blind melon?
You could get a pink pulpy papaya oozing its dubious fragrance and nutrients all across your now baby soft freckled skin rudely red with suntan copiously rubbed on ripe raw breasts by stiff strong fingers and a rough palm you readily chose- reaching for a miracle.
The sea looks beautiful today. Silvery smooth- a colour with no name under a blue blue sky drenched by an insistent yellow sun that casually bejewels it and burns the hapless sand chafing under you flaming feet as you you roar gently, sharp teeth gritted even as those thin thieving lips flash a beer soaked smile which may have been a grimace if not for the bikiniless bod nestled under an inviting orange umbrella just ahead...
Just spotted Daniel Craig hiding with a clandestine coconut cocktail (knew he hated martinis) under a rustic palm dried thatch, coy black striped towel hanging loose over a splash of crimson- (time he got his colours done- a pale peach perhaps to set off the wild weathered muscle) and a couple of covert tattoos thrown in- oh well...time for a dark rum and chilly beef then,need enough fire on my tongue to numb it black - before I use it again.
Jeremy Brett could have lost his nerve here- so many sundried carcasses burning in blissfully abandoned isolation- and your speckled back. Oh yes. Infamously scarred. I'll pass up the fangs, thank you.
Crushed ice in fake crystal, candid canopies calling for candied cunts, catch of the day in a cool coffer of cannabis, crab legs cushioned on a crackling grill, cloying canteloupe, cold cream on cracked contours, casting coy glances at cleavage and curves and clever cameras (clicking clouds?)
All the comfortable cliches you came here to find.
Blonde, black, brown ,beige, baffled, bemused, blistered, beautiful people- chasing a day with no thought, no chores, no ego- waiting for a glimpse of nirvana on an imagined shore busier than their lamplit study where scant hope floats.
Purple shades and a picture packed glossy-
these old thighs are meant for lazing
these old eyes are meant for gazing
all these highs are just for glazing
death by dire chocolate