Each one stands in a corner of the house.
Next to the blinds you find the tall, Latin one,
his face broken up into jagged planes by the evening sun’s glare
Next is the Swede, by the blood-red bathroom,
smiling foolishly, immortal as gold
Near the piano is the mutt,
half Apache, half French, with curls that seem to spill into every crevice of the world
he stands in a slouch and his eyes dance
The Latin smells of honey, and she kisses him,
a whole array of succulent pastries lies inside his core,
The second her tongue lazily explores his upper lip,
the sugar is already coming,
flowing into her veins like heroin comida,
benevolent but fatal in its allure.
She hungrily attacks the Swedish fool,
biting at his neck,
(for there lie the famous potatoes)
and crashing her jaw into him,
her saliva grabbing at the meat,
the slow-cooked veal,
with that ungodly sauce,
and all is rammed inside of her like an axe demolishing a tree stump
she needs it so.
She saves the mixed creature for last,
for he is always a surprise.
On occasion he produces coque au vin,
the kind you won’t find in the top-tier bistros and restaurants in France
at other times his glorious mouth brings whiskey with unrefined cocoa beans,
seemingly meager but erotic and plentiful to an unprecedented degree
Today she slams her body into him,
molding their figures together, her hands slipping all the way down his gazelle legs
she is hungry,
and he obliges
feeding her oysters, red rice with sausage,
and that créme brulée,
so unbearably delectable she cries out
and feels red wine coursing through her blood
heating her up to an alarming, passionate frenzy
She is hungry, ravenous,
the girl with the empty refridgerator
and plenty of money
she has discovered the key to survival
the click of the senses arriving into harmony
the metaphysical cluster of it all
is attained simply
from Adam and Eve
and the crumbs of all creation.
It’s a metaphor..