On homecoming.

Guess what brews

In a cauldron plush ?

A toasted angel.

Some exotic love.

Rare finds of a druids toil,

Herbs and roots.

A spectacular dish to be plated soon.

Hunger and love.

And longing.

The people can only wait.

Hungry metaphors.

Dark chocolate ice cream
And cigarettes.

One seductive

The other swaying.

All I need now,

Is a real person.

The sin city.

I know of a place full to brim with sin. A place to be the original human. Vats of love portions magically refill themselves with the lovable. Men of flesh, young and loose, in skins of pink and slate flaunt in nude here. Erotic smells and ammoniac fumes fill the nostrils while the soles try balancing on slippery floors. Loose yourself here. Fall, for someone will catch you. In nothingness some hands, some soft lips shall sing you lullaby, caress you till you moan. In that moaning don't forget to return it back to them- hand for a hand, mouth for a mouth. Must I tell you this is no wonderland of Alice. Its a grown up and a more selfish place.
"Seek and you shall find, ask and it shall be opened unto you."
 If you have no business here then go away- no second glances. Its a matter of skin and touch. No visuals. A braille of porn will simmer you hot. Textures soft and hard will touch you on your thigh and a little above. They will tour your back and chest- flow with the hair patterns and body curves. Don't be alarmed, don't cry panic. Don't stir, just slide. Loose yourself to the endless night and do not count the hours. When drained pause, dress up and leave. Do come back for more.

Some considerations please.

They smoke deep puffs,

Melting and mingling with each.
Behind, a cranky child.

In naivety.

The sea tickled beyond its threshold
Rolls to the habited land,
Stirring panic among men.

Freeshow.

A charcoal approaching sky,

And a theatrical symphony of waves
No onlookers. 
Just lonesome light poles.

The give away.

Tummy tucked,all conscious

Slowly biting the bread.
Too bad the wallowing winds cheats you.
Pulling clothes,sticking,
Defining your curves.

Wind victim.

Miss, balancing a cake box in one,
The other in failed attempts to tame the free hair.
The high heels are another story altogether,
By the windy seaside.