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Aphrodite's Neck

I pick up my pipe of joy and gently caress it

I stare at its sensual curve of bowl and chamber

It lulls me into another place

I have thoughts of Aphrodite

And trace that same curve along the Goddesses neck

My hand stops just below that perfect curve

And there my vision lingers


Half asleep, half awake, I look at the bulging bowl

Pregnant with pleasure to come

Dark as that Abyssinian maid

As she plays her dulcimer

Its curves echo those of my pipe

I think of her as I strike a match


The match sparks into life

Releasing the phosphorous from its grip

In my semi-conscious state, it seems as though

A Promethean flame flickers then explodes

It burns like a miniature sun

Giving life to those magic leaves in the bowl

Releasing the pleasure scents and tastes


I drift away again

The match still burns

Scorches my fingers

Waking me with a jolt

The spell is broken


Maids, dulcimers and Goddesses are gone

As my pipe falls in slow motion towards the gap in my ancient armchair

It has no fire safety label

Like a giant bale of hay just waiting for a spark

I clumsily try to halt its descent into the underworld of the lost and discarded

Down the side of the chair


But I am saved from a fiery demise

As the curvature of my pipe allows it to lodge

Right side up in the gap

It never reaches the fuel for a fire

Down at the bottom

The sweet wrappers, Rizlas, and final demands

Can again rest in mellow peace with me

And enjoy the pleasure

Of Aphrodite’s neck

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