Spain

I would like to go where the noise streams through the valleys of men's ears and tequilla
Falls freely in the round, thick shots tipped up by wrists in scarlet or snow-white
Silk towards glimmering teeth and sharp, pink tongues, lips the color of painted
Guitars, where the girls shake bodies full of beads to the strum of syncopated
Purrs while the feathers on their heads clip back and forth as quickly as the jewels
About their midriffs shake...and I would touch them, touch their hot skin, their torsos, touch their shining necks
Bent back to reveal sinful hollows, the laughing cavities of a transgression, and the rills and the lees of fabric
Stretching over squeezing limbs and snapping snugly at the points of pleasure, power playing
Where the fingers glide of themselves and grind and the force of a motion transfers into moan.