Prose Poem: Beer

Beer

The region is tropical sweltering sun sea dazzle humidity warmth and there is every reason to stay and simpler to be in a room but everywhere life is courage to be there for the light and shadow and shade and coconuts cashews and cocktails by the pool waiter in earnest topping up kindness drink to eyes to the bright of overtaking and that is a turning of sobriety to sway and swagger not fall definitely not as the symmetry of liquid amber is lost drunk but certainly not too drunk to toast another taste difference scull another bottle a golden brew icy lick lips lick lips it is not a birthday to send everything away and there is no use at all denying thirst for respect for thirstiness in any country is mutual. 

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Prose Poem: Sunset

Sunset
The late sky is a gate which opens is open at the hour of closing. Summer says it is so. In the middle of a tiny spot a white light is in bright and comes before the blackening. A. an orange balloon and B. not dangerous and never bursting only an explosion of beautiful, beautiful. Go amber, go gold, a football, a goal landed in the sky. Suppose a good seat is mango juice, a front seat with toes dipped, beach in rubbed purr, ooh ooh ooh leather soles gone and a whole time of ladies simple pleasure smiles toes heels calves sales ladies little sales big ladies little feet satin smooth not saddles of mutton. The day again in a bolster, a blessing, warm not hot and another show of sunset shutting in twenty-four hours.

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Prose Poem: Breakfast

Breakfast:
A square table of a period, French provincial and a joyful array of the region with croissants and slender butter and placed with a little difference is a small white bull. Not a real bull. It shows perhaps a borrowing. Spanish, but not, certainly not, as it holds milk for the tea. The tea is weak but nevertheless the decoration is blue, a kind colour around the room in a choice of chairs, not too small for the back and the leaning yesterday and it is likely that today is a holiday with eggs and coffee. Delicious eating without explaining an accent as food is a language, yes, and no need to explain a carafe of juice with an arrangement of seasonal fruit and a side serving of baker’s crusty snaps. Waiting is lengthening for the bacon and mushrooms if that order is really necessary but if in the eating there is a needed respite, a platter of cheese is there for the tasting, and a declared respect for the cook when the door swings open and a tray of pumpkin soup is strong and mushy with early morning warmth which is a kind of astonishment for tears and fullness and a certain bursting when there is further talk of salmon with a dash of pepper, kind cuts of ham, sausages thick and thin, a breakfast different and pleasanter and certainly there is no surprise waving the chicken away.

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