Frank sits in the bed that he has shared with his wife for forty-five years, leaning back comfortably against the cushioned headboard. He watches the young red-headed woman dancing seductively for him at the foot of the bed. He devours every inch of her with his hungry eyes, as his hands clutch the sheet beneath him in tortured anticipation.

     She has already removed the black satin dress that she had worn that evening. She is left in nothing but her lacy black underwear that draws attention to, but still conceals her most exciting parts. Her hips sway languidly to the rhythm of the slow jazz pouring from a stereo speaker, then slowly undulate forward to every third or fourth beat. He notices the soft tuft of red hair rubbing against the lace of her panties as her supple hips push the fabric back and forth.

     He feels an involuntary moan come on and then escape his lips. It makes her smile as she raises her hands to tussle her hair about and then lets go, sending a crimson flow cascading down the front of her shoulders to gently lay across the exposed skin of her bulging breasts. She leans herself forward, placing her hands on the bed while licking her lips and looking straight into his eyes. Her bra, which he wasn't even aware had been unclasped falls to the floor. Her breasts now swing freely side to side, with nipples taut as top hats pointing down and yet angling toward him at the same time. This vision causes some stirring in his shorts, but the banner has yet to be fully raised.

     She puts one hand ahead of the other, and then, from behind, her knee has come to join the party. He realizes that she is now slowly crawling toward him on all fours. She is a feline on the hunt for her prey, and the certainty that it is him she hunts for is enough inspiration for a bulge to quickly take shape below before sinking slowly back down. Dammit, he thinks, almost had it that time.

     She has seen what happened, and she gives him a sly pout, but continues her forward prowl nonetheless. Her red hair is now dangling from her shoulders partially obstructing his view of her swaying breasts. Somehow, not being able to see everything at once fills him with a fresh excitement, and the bulge appears again, but unfortunately, doesn't stay around much longer than before. He looks at her, embarrassed by his shortcoming. "I'm sorry," he whispers, "I'm not sure what's going on down there."

     "Don't worry," she whispers back, "I know how to fix it." Her pout has now turned back into a smile as she comes forward and slowly lowers her face into his lap. He can now smell the sweet scent of her hair. It is intoxicating. He looks up at the ceiling as he feels her rustling in his shorts. His member is suddenly exposed, and he feels the cool room temperature on it for a split second before it is plunged into a soft, warm wetness. Euphoric stars explode in his mind. He hears her giggle and he thinks, well that didn't take long.

     She comes back up, breathing heavily now. He knows that she is just as excited as he is. She pulls herself up straddling his lap, as he reaches down to grab her by the ass and pull her as close to him as he possibly can. She begins to wriggle back and forth, grinding his manhood into the sheets beneath them. This is almost more than he can stand. Something has to happen, and it has to happen now.

     Something does happen, but not what he had expected. Suddenly, from the speaker playing the slow jazz, comes the blaring cry of a trumpet. Except, it's not a trumpet. It's more like thunder. No, not thunder, it's someone snoring.

     Frank wakes up in the bed that he has shared with his wife for forty-five years. He looks around and, She's gone, is his first panicked thought. It takes him a few moments, but then he looks to his left, and he realizes that she is not gone. She is lying next to him in the same spot that she has slept for the last forty-five years. She has gained more weight than she would ever admit to, and there is now more grey in her hair than red, but it's her. His member, which had been highly inspired by the dream, creeps back into its hiding place. That's okay, he thinks with a smile, you know she'll dance for you again.            He turns to the left wrapping his arm around her, and then falls back to sleep with his face buried in her sweet smelling hair.

London.

warm and polluted

and on fire with

civility

the afternoon burns

to dusk

without notice

the city full with

hanging flesh

and beats of fashion

addicts

beggars

women so fucking amazing

they’re almost weird looking

walking with my buddy I haven’t seen for

24 years

but we picked up right where

we left off

no weird adjustment

no bullshit changes

nothing to prove

walk an hour

drink

talk about metal

the continuity of Slayer

about the decline of Metallica in

1991

and about

his wife and kid

my dogs

America

the sickened state of politics

but mostly about the good things

old jokes reborn

people of the past resurrected

and laughed at further

destroying time with each

raise of the glass

each inside joke

each look of disgust

at a hipster

or a crackhead

but all good shots aside

watching the city darken

and get colder

the moon bringing out the

mirror of the Thames

shot down the stress vultures

in my heart

the faces of them

the slimy feel of them

all the goddamn fucking

bullshit I’ve put up with

or dealt out

but mostly put up with

sitting there in the pauses

between jokes

between stories

feeling my skin

grow younger

my blood run

cleaner

the wind of the world

and the blink of time

for which

we survive and live

the sunsets across the

shores, the cities, the moon

shining down

on all of us there

the people of London

so quick

polite

easy on the eyes

and stomach

the vultures

in my heart

dead over the

dark hills.

He clenched the rope, knuckles raw from scraping against the granite. He swayed inches to the right and then back to the left in a perilous embrace with the mountain. His palms burned. His fingertips had become numb long ago, minutes or hours, he couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. The stiffness had set in, like something long since dead. 

He dug his toes into the rock, searching for a foothold that wasn’t there.

It wouldn’t be long now.

He thought of her.

He’d promised her he wouldn’t let go, but that was years ago, and he was beginning to think she might be hoping he would now. 

Falling would be easy.

The wind burned his eyes, drawing a soundless tear over cracked skin. 

He was thirsty. Hungry too, but the thirst was what demanded. It screamed. It tore at his throat like the claws of an eagle cinching hold of its hunted.

It won’t be long now.

Strength, he resurrected from the grave.

He would never let go. He promised.

This mountain will move.