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.

The legend of lil’ Samson.

I am 7 years old,
I am a champion.

My bed is tagged with golden piss,
My juice-boxes are served cold,
My homework list is as long as my Christmas list,
My head grows, filled with lies my teacher told.

I am 7 years old,
I am a champion.

My self-esteem fluctuates between low and high,
My hands blacken with mud playing in the sun,
My personality attracts no friends no matter how I try,
My nights are long trying to ignore my dad lashing my mum.

I am 7 years old,
I am a champion.

My grades are to be hit high as required,
My dream is to ride a motorbike,
My crush laughed when I told her it was her I admired,
My classmates called me gay so I tried to take my own life.

I was 7 years old,
I am a champion.

I love neck

I love when I get sloppy neck in the toilette that affects the sex for every minute I collect inside the mess between her legs, wrestling like it’s a contest, holding her against her chest, putting her under arrest while fondling her breasts wondering who’s next to jump into my bed, eat a fancy dinner, connect, digest and undress to let me inspect the wet muscles they flex under their dior-scented dress.