We orbit and the places we land
When we are like magnolias
In summer, quenching
Each day, holding it so tight,
Like God was trying
To take it all away from you,
Not knowing whether the places we land,
Are tarmacs or rocky ground,
And still we land, knowing
That the unsuspecting instinct,
Tells you that it is perfectly Ok,
To get lost, so lost, in the night,
And not to resurface at dawn.
And all you are at sunrise
Is a rum whore and a sex-drunk.
As dead as the mattress at a cheap hotel,
Too hungover to know, that the night before,
Had just been pimping out the rum,
While the body was soaked
By a woman, who at 10 AM the following morning
Was finally steady enough,
To look pleasing to the eye.