Weed Dabs on a Sunday at the Condo

Leprechaun stuffies
Erstwhile Eeyores
Marmelade bears
Snuggliness
And soft things making her purr
On a couch in a hard-on January twilight
Imagining drug-infused reveries
And before she came in and lit the blow torch
And got started
I imagined my tongue launching
Into inspired sapio-dervishes
Profound elevations of thought
But instead
I became capable only of
Dull dumb questions about object whereabouts
Requiring
Prepositional phrases
Which she answered with precision
And clarity
Smoke sharpening visual recall
In contrast to my fog
"Seen my belt"?
"It's next to the table."
"Seen my cell?"
"It's on the kitchen counter "
"Do you have the remote?"
"It's under the DVDs"
The dabs guillotining whatever lofty thoughts
I might have been capable of
And then time groaned to nothing
And the evening became
A series of words
Kiss
Tongue
Too much tongue
Kiss again
Snuggle
Movie
Aladdin
Kiss again
Clothes flying off
Fingering
Fucking
And "Where's the remote again?"
Assbud
Rammed
By tongue
Floor
Naked
More fucking
Lazy massage
"There's more to me than just the ass!"
And
"Quit spanking my left side!"
Bath
Bath salts
Bed
Dewy pajamas
Smelling of sex
And "not sure if we'll meet again" odor
Mountains of softness
Snuggle
I think just a bit of
Laura
She's up there giggling
At the scene
In the cotton Sunday night/Monday morning
Where new friends roll around
And be silly
And don't care
About past
Or future
Laughing at the empirical emptiness of life
Swollen with endless pursuit of
"Now I got it all"
Put on the cotton jammies
And light up blowtorches
On hot elements
Swirl in a goofy smoothie
And plod around naked
Looking for your remote
And give half-assed massages
And be careful
Not to bang your head
It's a cottonesque Sunday
And I am feeling pretty good
At least
Until she whisks away the big bong
And I get stuck
In the cesspool pipe of careerism and "normal" again