My sine que non is a deep fried turtle; no, not the gooey, chocolate covered confection, suddenly vodka battered, and named ‘turtle’ for inscrutable reasons; but, the germ green kind that ski under moss hemmed willows.
I’m on the waterfront; and a phylum of burnished, silk sari shadows are gathering near the water’s cutaneous edge, like tactile goosebumps.
Light amoebas coruscate in a shot glass of cognac, in the petri dish sunset over Champagne Lake. I can taste the brine of the metaphysical becoming material. Éclat is ambrosial brie, salt rind, and oyster like homme cunt.
I have a reptilian lust.
From my white whicker porch swing, I can see the swans turning the sooty red of a Lancôme lipstick. I take a swig of my pumpkin pie flavored moonshine, and close my soul’s subdermal eyes.