Heat Delirium
Coastal obscurities & the attached madness that comes with hand catching oysters, eating sunscreen, throwing seashells at yachts.
Don't open my door
The cold outside world
I'm movin to a place
A place where no one knows my name
Her bronzer had a coconut flavor and now my lips taste of poison.
Why would I do that. Knowing, certainly, since I watched her do it, rub that shit on, that I’d be contaminated. I’m wiping my mouth with a 100 dollar bill and Ben Franklin is a whore! I didn’t even have to buy him a cup of coffee before I’m allowed to use tongue. Purity, dead!
Where’s the priest? A confession is needed, from him! As I hear the Vatican has secret chambers full of immortality artifacts. Everyone working there is 400+ years old.
Oh GOD! The bronzer, the suns beating heat, this woman who’s been staring at me while I think! It all invites delirium. I’m washed in madness.
“The pope?”
My face wants to react: eyes dying to bulge, jaws tempting to tighten but I hold all of this back.
No fear seeps in. She can read my mind!
It’s my fault, I believe. I’ve put her on a new diet, a clean on, of freshly squeezed orange juice, hand caught (by me) oysters, and Amish churned butter. The goal was to sharpen her mind. Tighten up her spiritual prowess. All witches are woman. They live closer to this realm. She’s getting strong, quick!
“You’re reading my mind.”I say plainly. In a matter-of-fact manner. A statement, not a question.
Her brows, forehead scrunch, a mask of confusion. This relieves me. “I’m not? You said something about the Vatican?”
I study her: high check bones design a hollow cheek-to-chin region, creating a shadow effect. Coltrane sunglasses by Valley highlight this. The shadowed cheek matched the lens. I ignore this for a second and look at myself in the reflection. Making sure the hair is slicked back in styled fashion. Slightly messy, wind disrupted, not too much. I don’t stress it but subtly adjust. Natural. Thin, wire frame, cocaine bones draped beneath a short Missoni cover up. Of which, I’m not a fan. They’re too loud, peacocked vibrancy but hers is classy. Monochromatic, light, pairing well with sun kissed skin.
Still studying. It’s been minutes of silence now. She seems sincere, as if I really did say something about the Vatican, meaning, unfortunately, I was speaking out loud. This realization makes sweat pour down into my eyes. Lips sunscreen poisoned, eyes burning. I’m thinking it’s time to get in the ocean. Spend some time underwater. The whole world disappears down there, you know? I’m hunting rare fish.
ps
Thy hiatus!
Packed my car with some black tees & books.
Moved 250 miles (ironically) (play the intro song at the top) to the coast.
Left a girl I’d tricked myself into believing I loved. The romantic’s curse!
The QoL at the coast outweighs the city by far. Maybe it’s honeymoon phase. Maybe it’s lust of new land, new people, new dives. I doubt this.
What’s been going on with YOU!
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Much love,
Winston
Souled Idea
Underground Outlaw
Backyard Poet
