“Pass the croissant, the butter and the Algerian waitress.”

The bastard heat picks on my skin
White hot light rays blind me between each building's shadow
The ocean evaporates mid-air - the air itself rains down onto my skin,
It is moist.
So is the breeze from the Caspian sea that licks my skin,
Caspian kisses it with tongue. The slut.
The mountains grow beards of forests
The highways sizzle the bottom of affordable rubber tyres
A landscape hot as hell itself.
The French continue to smoke yet I see no clouds in the sky
Down on earth I see ripe french and Congolese women with voluptuous backsides,
uneaten baguettes, golden, that crack at the touch
and expensive wines from old dusty cellars of their heroic WWII veterans.
(Secret: The dust makes the wine expensive. Still good though.)
I'm at home, I'm at peace.
Pass the croissant, the butter and the Algerian waitress.

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