The World’s Most Complex Cocktail

Us cannibals smile – mouth single syllables. In a couple of days, you sleep on folded pillows where the air must feel different (thinner at least). No floating pepper adheres to your teeth while I ponder the wiseness of having another. My lover, you mistake me for your brother so often that now I think that is the point. The blood is for mornings, it helps smooth out joints and replace whatever I left in your yard. A perfectly made one looks just like my car – bright red, not too large, hell who needs a bar when there’s V8 for days and you’re already too far to explain that the change I know you counted on never came – I am still wholly yours and mostly the same. The drink has a grim sense of I-will-prevail like the bloodthirsty tribes on the Amazon trail who wage stick wars and then eat the hearts of their foes. Do you see now, baby, why I want you so close?

The only other time I used to drink blood was in catholic church from a metallic cup – thinking blood is much spicier, saltier, nicer at filling you up than this watery stuff. And anyway, I know wine isn’t love and god doesn’t watch from some point above. But Mary, oh yes, she sits on my desk. She smiles politely and would never let me forget that someday sometime there’s traditions of mine with a girl who I know can fit into my rhymes with the ease that the wine turns into god’s blood. I don’t believe in god right now but do believe in love.


~ by perfectionatrix on August 28, 2011.

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