Slip chuck bang bang buck boom boom hang, oh it’s always so bad to be hung up this way...hang down your head and cry in your glass of umbrellas from the outside of the deep misty mountain windows where you can peer through the looking glass and through the steam into the smoking hot lua pele and watch the goddess of fire herself do her volcano hula dance—no not hula, the hip shaking earth quaking soul breaking all mesmerizing windmill dance with her arms and legs of molten flame coming at you...or just content yourself with gazing at the old dark wooden bridges covered with lei’s and spanning the soft murmuring waters of the Kon-Tiki River that starts on some mountain and flows to some ocean through some jungle and splashes underneath and on and on it goes and goes behind the abandoned sugar mills that the last sugar ship bade farewell to some time ago and sailed on...now it just produces ghosts...the easy slide guitar music Santo and Johnny-like and the pork and the poi on the carnival plates shimmering like the finest mined diamonds on Diamond Head swishing forth and back and side to side among the catamarans that the handsome dark skinned men captain...palettes of fruit in pure color...the winds of the trade blow low through the fronds and over that of the blondes golden hair matted down with ocean and sand and suntan lotion and little pieces of crushed shell...I lay not lei in the cool damp with a faux migraine tapping me alongside the head and with the sun roasting me like a macadamia...I don’t wanna move for the next fifty years at least...my very spiritual herbal essence has been completely discombobulated from the ocean motion of east west north and south all banging together at once—head spinning and wanting to bury myself like a little crab into the darkness of the subterranean beach...alternately I lay still like conch shell—take me home dark haired and tan attractive 40-something beauty on your return first class flight and put me under your bed at home for luck- I promise to lay quiet on your plush blue carpet in the shadow of the dust ruffle and sound like the ocean when you pick me up...breeze of the tropical late afternoon blows drops off and I drop off sleepy time where I hear the occasional remembrance of ebb and flow until I wake up and take some time to regain my longitudinal bearings in accordance with Greenwich England and clear my head and find some ice drowning in a glass of dark liquor—Banzai time—and the water crashes with the rabies dog foams and the bronze and the beautiful head out to make love to the tall and dark and dangerous strangers coming in to wet kiss the shore in warm embrace and softly touching hands as it departs in sweet sorrow...ride that curl you shocking blue bikini clad girl as it sets her mind and soul free in a world wide ecstasy of sound, motion and oneness with the beautiful universe baby...surfing the chaises myself to wipe the grains of pain and sand from my eyes—I run a personal ad; potential second degree burn victim seeks long term commitment into the late night hours with beautiful chaise lounge who likes shady spot under cabana or even better, a beachside bar with long cool drinks and small bites of white flesh...from a large hollowed out coconut full of rum and fruity delights.
