She stepped into the bus with a deep mediterranean tan covered with orange blossoms and her vulva with fresh crabs.
“I want to see it,” she said.
Quiero ver lo.
Khayyam looked at her hand. Her nails were polished in five different colors: blue, red, yellow, black and green. Colored beads covered her wrists like a Persian carpet. On her left hand was tattooed BAKHTIARI and on her right KHAYYAM.
She filled the bus with sand and orange blossoms handing out the Rubaiyat. He threw gold Spanish coins at her feet, laying down the red carpet, get down on it. He pushed a lethal injection into her juicy orange indecently, yes, fragile hypertense kineticism, eating white cake with cinnamon and orange icing.
She knew it was Spanish summer when he killed the bull and blood spurtted on the window pane, periously close to collapse.
“Now I gotta wet 'cha”, he said and pissed-off.
The Persian prick you love to hate still raises a sardonic chuckle in the fishing village of Calpe that harks all the way back to acid-tinged 2001 Nishapur an old black snake throbbing a quick one while honking the horn,
Defying anyone to take his crown with an odd flash or two behind the bus.
Antsy.
Natch.
LET ME SEE IT.
He took it out and let her see it.
B&O$O∑O”O!O?OøO=O)O(O/O÷*O:O>M
I didn't care, I was just happy to be there.
PENIS – %$?=)”ø – ESPANA
