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“Tico Tico" - by The Andrews Sisters. Released in 1947 on “A Collection of Tropical Songs” by Decca Records.
“Chevrolet Biscayne 1960”. Come Fly With Me! Painted in 1981.
Yes it is so exciting and slinky smoothe, I promise each day will be Valentines
day. I promise if you stay in my life.
It is mid-day on the beach at the end of the missile test range.
I can see the night will provide all the gifts her lilting Sorceresses mouth whispers to me. . . and we dance. . . Where does love begin. . . in the taste of a kiss the color of the sea…near where I lived and want to live again with the one that has always filled my heart.
She filled my soul with enough love to last me all my life. How long it has lasted. aah. . .
She tells me all sorts of little meaningless things. That are neither important nor comprehensible. All I can hear is her voice and it the music of my soul. I slide and swirl through her words down her throat to her heart. Listen to its rhythyms. . .
I really don’t know what she is talking about, but I do know that I know her through her voice. . .
Bisssss….ca-ii-yy….ynnnnnn . . . . . . . ah!! The word slides off the tongue.
A susurration like the silk on your tanned thighs.
Bissssscaaaaynnnnnn!The sin of Chevrolet. To build such a car as this.
A Chev Roll Hay. We sinned enough. Well not enough actually. I would like to have sinned more.
Like a roll in the hay. Except firmer. And faster. Shining out in the two-tone sun, all turquoise and white
M.M. MMM. mmm. mm. mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Chek i-i-i-i-i-tt Outtt! White wall tyres and all. Shiny chrome like a sun tan.
Big V8 just wanting to bust loose. . . just like your breasts seem to want to bust loose from your shirt.
“Como como como viento-o-o-o . . .! Like the wind -
It makes time fly. Leaves the world behind. And takes us with. Leaves time
weighing down on its self. The world drags by on it’s self…everything goes
into slow-mo and then the whole world kicks quickly into reverse,
and we fly >>> It's gonna break the speed of sound.
“before time was our own, it belonged to providence”, you claimed. You
“We have no influence, we insist on making it our own so that if any one cares to ask we can say that history is the work of men”. Or so you said once before. With a mixture of fatal pride and responsibility. adding that: if that is to be so – then we must “make ourselves responsible”.
I was. The House on Travessa de Visconte is testament to that.
in your starched white lace bolera? You’re kidding. Its so white it blinds
even Beautiful Blue? Slipping into The Slide Zone:
"We must make ourselves responsible for Time, past & future?"
“Now and then – because “the Universe can no longer comfort us, since we stole all time away for ourselves: now it is all our responsibility – to Sustain The Past and Invent The Future…” Minchia!
You talk and philosophize a lot for a small, pretty girl/woman.
After that lecture do I want to battle with your bolera. Getting it off you. I will just as soon crease it leaving it on. . . The way your lapis lazuli boots tap the dance, the fandango that once it followed the music, would lead the musician to the next note.
Chiquia - I follow your steps with my notes, seducing you eventually to follow the tune of my guitarra.
So I can tell you this:
only here, agorra! do we remember the past. Only here do we desire the
future. You always waited till afterward to tell me the secrets of the
no-oumenon. The strange tide of blood that runs, flows, stops all beyond
my control – and yours even though you enjoy to dance “a flagrante”.
Always the exhibitionist - on the white leather upholstery, your beautiful olive tanned arse slides around in your own copious mercurio-orgasmagic flood, as I push you from one state to the next. Nothing could be more dynamic than that dance of oblivious forgetting woven into a seductive awareness.
Creating a history, whilst forgetting that history is a nightmare from which none of us can awaken.
Your friends called you “unruly” or “immoral”, your mother called you “incorrigible”, and the Public Defender was noted to mention the words, “way-ward” and “beyond parental control”.
Applied to the young girl that you were, all they meant was “she likes to fuck”. But you could not leave it at that. “The cat is out of the bag”, you would say in company, when you wanted to warn me that you were getting horny.
A feint within a feint within a feint. A play within a play. A story being
told of a story. . .
You always swore you would recognize me.
Your desire reflected in me is the wind in the sails of the Biscayne as it makes its beastly chromatic voyage across miles of tropical savanna heat.
Thru the Novo Redondo to the Praixa do Tofo.
Just to find some sand where there are no scurrying red ants eager to feast on our skin flesh blood life in this hottest hell of a day in Pair A Dice.
Like the pair of dice hanging from the rear view mirror in the Chev-roll-it.
Smoke-it. Listening to Jimi Hendrix belt out “The Stars that Play With Laughing Sam’s Dice”
Vrrrooooom - zhug-zhug-zhug-zhug-zhug . . . . as I turn the key and press the accelerator
THROUGH the floor….
Nobody gonna take my car
I'm gonna race it to the ground
Nobody gonna beat my car
It's gonna break the speed of sound
I’m a Highway Star
. . . through the one hundred and eight stations of The Cross – a beastly
benediction, supplications to a god who smiles on us as we turn through
all the names of all ever born, to all the names before them in our quest
to put distance between reality and what is real.
Love this Beautiful Blue machine – our “La Disco Volante”:the time machine flying saucer of a time of love beyond the real.
You said that I would never let you be alone for the days and all the things you tried to do - I know my heart is as strong as you, and you have a love so strong.
"Quizas, quizas, quizas . . . ?"
Perhaps - Perhaps - Perhaps
Yes it is so slow and slinky smooth
“I promise each day will be Valentines day.” you said.
I promise if you stay in my life . . .
Since we are out on the Missile Range, this is as good a time as any to reveal -
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