I
want a Baconator.
I
want it now.
Want
it in my mouth and all over my Jewish-Sicilian lips.
Your
ass came out of virtually nowhere.
Like
a ballistic missile shot from an underground bunker straight to my unexpecting
heart.
I
love how you play it off like it’s no big deal when actually nothing could be
further from the truth.
We
resist temptation or we don’t.
It’s
just that simple and the older I get the more I realize temptation may be the
very last virtue we have left.
Never
much cared for owls. It’s difficult caring about an animal who has eyes in the
back of its head and is wiser than King Solomon on a tear.
Your
ass calls out to me like a collect call from a prison of the universal mind.
I
desire to break on through and cleanse The
Doors of Perception by telling you everything that’s weighing me down and
letting the chips fall where they may.
Of
course it’s a dangerous proposition letting one’s guard down, but it also gets
mighty boring always staying above the fray and never getting one’s hands and
heart dirty.
I
want a Baconator.
Want
it like I want you on all fours, barking at the moon as I take you from the
back like a miner mining for the bloodiest and most striking of diamonds.
You
told me a secret with your eyes that I kept to myself for as long as I possibly
could before spilling it upon this killing floor like music that must be shared
with the world.
Charles Cicirella
6/21/17
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