Momentarily Gloria swallowed the diamond. She stayed until the diamond reemerged through the usual channels on the beach with a Dunhill lighter. And it was no longer what you'd call a yellow diamond then she frizzed her hair to look like Spanish wine flickering by the fire.
She ate chocolate and kept a piece on her tongue to show tinkering with a porno film ha ha ha.
Gloria managed a quiet giggle as she rode a silver Suzuki wrapping her legs around her separated Apollo Fillipa filled with green Spanish olives and toasted almonds drinking Cava from the fountainhead in the form of a cokerel at the great mosque in Cordova.
Still flourishing in a gold rojo inlaid Persian pencase of the mogul Emperorer Shah Jahan she served capichino at Cafe Arte on Calle Pintor Sorolla in May with orange blossoms in the air.
Short of breath she went up the hill toward the Arte Cafe lavender rosemary and sage plenty of time in Calpe the force that through the green goddess released the flower said
Dylan Thomas filled with men from Senegal and Granada.
Cellophane wishes were the worst sign of split bark angst after a Casablanca kiss in an empty bed with Spanish eyes black lashes licentious licks of waves and wounds held together with paper5 clips and wire hangers. She powdered herself with Maja perfumed powder.
Spring rain on the 4 Mediterranean a blue lamp on the table autobiographical fiction she was an escape artist from pale Calpe. She took the bed out of the closet.
A little flamingo with songs from Barcelona a fresh lobster in a boat pulled in by Spanish fisherman underr circling white seagulls inside -out a lot of rot she'll think about tomorrow.The pace of the fisherman's boat at Porto Calpe oh dios grant me she said one perfect windy night on the Mediterranean with my Spanish fisherman. She mended his nets vunerable dissolving into sails close to the wind by the Moorish Queen's pool in absentia.
Pink carnations mystical roses wicked pirates covered with flea bites and rats ah shit barely Espana the moon on the Mediterranean turning cheap thrills on the beach melting into the night of quiet stars captive in Calpe two hours from Valencia. The orthodox bus hissing stops at Porto Calpe a fishing village turning and mooning its flabby ass at the Rock Ifach.
A candle in front of a photograph of Gloria naked but for a marajuna necklace black clothes on the floor engaged in a sexual act with the big fisherman full of sperm feverish speculation as to the identity of the man revealed to be Omar Khayyam.
In warm rain she finally got her fook from Fillipa in Calpe desperately needed. After that it all went like clockwork for Gloria on the Mediterranean