Dining the Galaxy
In this world, cola may stretch.
We have lights and diets with enough spills for a drink.
Just listen to that little man who comes down the waterfall.
He just drowns in the fire before his destiny in the galaxy hue.
There’s too soft murmuring, chanting rap blue.
He can enter God and become, leave behind a comb in gel.
This weather needs a bath if the year drops a day.
Roses cuddle now by the coast because they’re “washed on the dial.”
Free soft-going, as I say!
The man paints his name to-hours as I recall him.
He keeps his Mexican nutrition at the giant wide-eyed coffee house of coyote lovers.
He sleeps as now sick dreams made of a fairy’s cotton.
His name has the quick sounds of Spanish bubbles in a melting pot.
Clouds have to drive somewhere if anything is here.
Storms wake when his blood boils in holy water.
I can’t swallow the soap when this tale has me.
His hombritos so strive in rusticity form on future rewind.
Modernity is Twix bars, coast to coast with other things.
The man is sleeping, but he’s not staying.
He is spicy warm with brisk sips if he seeps into time.
He’s alot love, many in Shakespeare’s tempest.
If perfume isn’t old water, why drink so much?
Squirts are frozen by the far lands of magnetism.
A compass can lead him, for God is its guardian.
So will waters away, drinks beyond orders, remain for his thirsty complexions?
His madre’s gulps of summer torrents keep him at bay.
Diners cook under His shining arches.
*About my soda adventures; more poems like this one could
happen.
https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3AGlass_cola.jpg
https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/10/Glass_cola.jpg
By pic_p_ter (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
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