Too damn right she was pretty, probably prettier than anything that’s ever come before her
The face, that effing face altogether, cannot quite get over it myself
Let me tell you, my libido goes off on one whenever I mention her legs inside of my mind – running and sprinting
Her body, well seeing as you got me started on that boisterous curvature all of its own seems my imagination just will not quit – if only I could see it in equally glorious colour as the real deal though
I’d be comatose
A Grandiose Kinda Comatose, like I oft dream Bob Dylan to sing from his hospital bed, pretty nurses feeding him all kinds of acid sneaked into makeshift drips
Leaving only themselves and their adolescent, lonely nakedness for Leonard and I to do our dastardly best
I don’t claim to write, know I’ve no lust to be a poet, or any kinda ‘wanabee’ for that smarting matter
But that appetite, that insatiable effing appetite to take Dylan’s mightier-than-thou place – on a crappy and gum-pocked stool way back when, with a microphone for fair affable company and not in his hospital bed of angst-ridden regret like I said – it never leaves my side, begging to get its chance to dance like a male gigolo in the bare-naked sun
There is no sun, no siree, just hollowed out mid-evening, mid-everything whiskey lounges with two old men and, you guessed right, Irish whiskeys in place of those sadly all too accustomed proverbial dogs
Afterwards Leonard and I will meet out back – turns out he’s a fan too – and light a savoury cigarette and puff ’til our lungs are poison all of their own – coated in a dark kinda gold
Then, and only then, will we end up alongside Dylan the over-awed sonofabitch on some clapped out, paw-marked bed of our own
And let me inform you of this, the nurses will swarm once more – for Leonard’s charm and my chiselled nature can manage to bed them alone
When the old smooth octogenarian gets to take some of it and the rest gets taken by a complete and problematic stranger like I
Trust us, if these words and thoughts – crazy as they wholeheartedly are – were printed and pressed inside of a cool and archaic looking book by two of the above then it would be loved and lived outright as opposed to never seeing the light of that seemingly bare-naked day
More like sin-soaked than sun- in all of its pretty and absolute peculiar honesty
Seems I’m dreaming of everything right about now
Remember, persona translates to the whole wide world one way or another

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