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04/06/09 - (1)
Old Fogy
To show what an old fogy I've become, am, Perhaps always have been, Let me briefly describe, as best as I possibly can, Last night's dream of Julie Christie and me, Forty-four years after her romp through Darling —
She the sexy, seductive, "happening" British model Of my short-lived initiation into mid-sixties hippiedom, That devil-may-care era of Vietnam War protests, Haight-Ashbury's climb to the dome of the social volcano, Which spewed human magma, like psychedelic ash.
Whatever oneiric wish delivered her to me, Released her genie, from opiate sleep's bottle, into my keeping, Has escaped in my smoke-and-mirrors haunted house. All I recall is Julie materializing from the vapors, Undressing before me, down to her nubile nakedness,
Kissing the lips of the slithering snake I suddenly was, Embracing me, in her tight white thighs, Allowing me to slide inside her writhing, wet vagina, Disappear into her warm fountain-of-youth juices, Exit through a cave opening, in her ageless imagination.
Then, she was no more, and I was just another dull headache Awakening into yet another pedestrian sunrise, No longer that sleek six feet of viperine fantasy But a shriveled-up sixty-eight-year-old earthworm Barely squirming, between the layers of my dirty sheets.
04/06/09 - (1)
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