Monday, June 14, 2010
Thursday Night Tapas and Tamales
Spanish undulating pinata rump-whacking, she shimmies into her jaw-dropping hot rumba, the growls to which even earthquakes eveolulavulate. They turned the tables, the chandeliers, and shocked the mirrors black when they came tumbling in, met their masters, and knew not what they had done. A daring young lad swivels her close, fingers as firm and guiding around the well-thumbed viola, her back thrown into the arc de triumph over his left knee, and deftly marking the tip of the leaning tower of pisa with his lips, flings her into an arabesque, spinning galaxies into dancers with cabaret knee-high kicks and chorus mimicry alternating with the slithering ditherer of a dolled temptress of rouge and curled eyelashes all a flutter with sighs and giglgles. A rowdy bunch of philandering love-buggers throw bottoms around like hot tamales in homoerotic mischief, a slap for each one of their toasty bombas sends them scurrying into the twist and, after a shout, tumbling back into her uninhibited palms for hot bacon. Saucer-eyed and dreamy-handed they melt flan-style over each other in the snakey amigos flare of flash-in-the-pan comraderie. The room is scorching like capsacin in a white woman's mouth and men shake peanuts in hot oil as two open mouths ring on a dime with a fire aphid chorus of bad romances and twist and shouts. The flambe female fire ping-pongs itno arms and around tapping sunday-formals, and like a waterfall thrusts inhibition into the farthest reachesof alter-emptiness. She is sliced carotid artery free. Fire feeds on tree. Tree feeds on CO2. And the energy form both is unstoppable. Flung salada into the starts, he grips a warm tamale and with an axial twist of the wrist, jallolopies her free to unravel the twine and burn on her own circumnavigating grape-stomping kinesis.