WHITE CHRISTMAS
WHITE CHRISTMAS How I wish I was old enough (not as Poe though) and bucks flowing through my pocket on a vacation with my hot dame out slowly melting fats on the white sands of some paradise else-where. What a silly dream though? For a moment I stop to wonder why human daydreams and fantasies are spooky than their nightmares. If I had a David Hurley I wouldn’t want anyone on it on such a day but few packets, some sausages, ham and some rum too for the love of the wild country road and its charming roaring winds. I wouldn’t mind to listen to the voice messages the day after in my cold mountain log cabin as sparrows and squeals of the day before fill the pregnant ether. Usually I‘m not a wet blanket so if I woke up at ten with drops of ethane and wormwood still suspended in my uppercase inhaling what the a stranger in my bed is exhaling,clearly,the carols would remind me which day it was before finally being blinded by red. Two almost three decades that have melted into sweet or