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Welcome Back Shoota
40 Answers
How was France?
Answers
I didn't know you'd been away........
21:28 Fri 18th Oct 2013
Shoota dreamed that he was eating grapes
one fat berry at a time
from a plump green bunch,
an Arms man’s entire destiny
his misfortunes
in those freshly picked grapes
as old as the AB world
In the dream, Shoota's the one eating
the grapes with a big mouth
that laughs in despair, a pitiful sight,
because it’s been tricked
by Ed's dark dream
and it must laugh as he chews
the infected green berry
Shoota crunches it between his teeth reluctantly
because when one dies, or eats,
AB scandal will follow
as if he had scabies, he gobbles it down
its immobile grains
stuck in the glimmer
ready for the AB dissection deigned
In the white, dry, limestone
glimmer that never dies,
Shoota see Cupid before him
and he is a tranny
in stockings, bra and angora sweater that cover
his trembling flesh, wondering where are the AB grannies
the poor little, big French house
with flies on its greased table
empty and tired,
its courtyard well
sunlit walkways and vineyard fields
are burning
in the blaze of the sun
Wrought-iron beds in its rooms
white bedcovers that smell
of old fleas that died
in the time of Shoota's aunts and uncles
when poverty gnawed
even the branches of the fig-tree
in the sun-burnt garden
There, in the middle of it all, Shoota,
a forgotten little featherless swallow,
felt the sin like the heat
and kept it under his scorching skin
as great as the AB world
that passion burned
in his Beloved Cupid.
one fat berry at a time
from a plump green bunch,
an Arms man’s entire destiny
his misfortunes
in those freshly picked grapes
as old as the AB world
In the dream, Shoota's the one eating
the grapes with a big mouth
that laughs in despair, a pitiful sight,
because it’s been tricked
by Ed's dark dream
and it must laugh as he chews
the infected green berry
Shoota crunches it between his teeth reluctantly
because when one dies, or eats,
AB scandal will follow
as if he had scabies, he gobbles it down
its immobile grains
stuck in the glimmer
ready for the AB dissection deigned
In the white, dry, limestone
glimmer that never dies,
Shoota see Cupid before him
and he is a tranny
in stockings, bra and angora sweater that cover
his trembling flesh, wondering where are the AB grannies
the poor little, big French house
with flies on its greased table
empty and tired,
its courtyard well
sunlit walkways and vineyard fields
are burning
in the blaze of the sun
Wrought-iron beds in its rooms
white bedcovers that smell
of old fleas that died
in the time of Shoota's aunts and uncles
when poverty gnawed
even the branches of the fig-tree
in the sun-burnt garden
There, in the middle of it all, Shoota,
a forgotten little featherless swallow,
felt the sin like the heat
and kept it under his scorching skin
as great as the AB world
that passion burned
in his Beloved Cupid.
Hang on cupes I've found out now.
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