A Taste Of Poison

I'm sitting in a room with someone I don't trust for the life of me.

Why am I here ? Love holds strange forces. I had to come back as the force of love pulled clover leaves over my eyes.

Dominique, my man's name, is waltzing with Caprice, she is his present tart. Nice to describe women like cakes. We are all good for eating aren't we just? I am sitting in a room watching my lover dance with his other girlfriend.

What are the two of them up to ? They don't want me around. Why did Dominique ask me to return? To show me his dirty dancing in a house I used to call home. I sat and bite my thumb, thinking out loud. I watch the couple dance. A man who got his teeth into my flesh over the hills far away.

He tried it on in London town. He tried it on at a Sultans castle, before I rode the kings horses. Got his way in the end. That sultan dropped down dead. One day, his son, a new sultan on the block grabbed my social media page. Invited me for champagne floating inside incense tea. The lover on my block then, never grabbed my gold pen. Thoughts go through my mind as I sit watching the pair dancing.

They're a distraught couple of crack-pots. One, got the needle on the block. As soon as the nurse cut the umbilical cord from his mother's womb. Poor woman died over the tide somewhere on the Arabian world block. Not the one where the grizzly bears hide. No, the other side where the good Arabian knights hang-out. Then, she dumped her baby with her former old man. She ran away over the hills far away to dance in Beirut's nightclubs. The city was once the ' Las Vegas' of the middle east. Inside Beirut lay a one man band show, with accompanying elephants. They had feathers tied up around their ears. The elephants did wear feathers, not just the dancing girls.

He, the dancing showman, got kicked in the back-side before he could count to three. Not much of a life-start now was it ? Thought I, as I watched this pair of life-infested by bad-balls, that hit us. "Just waltz please". I gave ny orders. They found each other as both were struck by lighting bolts. One long before he got put over his mothers knee. As said, he was hardly the age of three. The other "Caprice", that is. She ran away from her old man. A husband who ran off, after screwing her over easy. He then put his wife on the block exchanged her for a young chicken. You know, how some men are about age in women. They can't see anything below the hemmed skirt on one's birth certificate. Harder now, I guess, Botox with boob jobs conceals wrinkles plus flat tits. Gentleman you require magnifying glasses nowadays. You can't see clearer under the sheets either. Hormone replacement therapy puts girl hormones above yours in the age-trap department. We know you use Viagra, but our pills we pop beats yours any day. Doctors know who spends the most money.

The story goes, Caprice runs away to Arabian lands. Caprice, met my old man in that one man band with the feathered elephants. As for me, I decided I must be 'Florence Nightingale' reincarnated .There be no other way of describing, the spiritual force of nature, throwing such allot of muddled up people off the block for me to fix. Knots tie up other knots.

Now, I'm no psychiatrist, I am above all that mind analysis. I'm Florence Nightingale reincarnated, I think. I used to think I was Marylin Monroe re-incarnated. Once upon a time. Her death bed day was the year I was born you know. I met her in Paris on a few occasions. Then Elvis Pressley turned up singing one of my songs, I'd written while I was on the Parisian chopping board. Not for anything criminal. Far more exciting than that. Another lovers duet in Paris lay on my spread. Paris has such crisp white bed-sheets. Now, in between all my Parisian coffee love-knots. I had to meet Elvis for a chin-wag. We did half get along. That was in Paris too, as a matter of fact. Please do put a penny in the old girls hat. My hat, I mean.

Marylin got most annoyed so took me to Hollywood. Had a chin-wag with a producer about a great story. You will drag it out of me one day. Now I sit watching this pair of souls on their dancing toes. Thoughts filter through me like a running river.

What the heck did they drag me back here for?

' Ding, dong' a bell rings.

Actually, it's one of their instruments. They ran a show once upon a time Donkey's years ago. Think it's one of those bells like the servants used to run too in the old days. A gold bell is seen chanting out towards me.

' Talk Of The Town' was their London den. Was when the city sung a different tune. Not like the year two thousand and twenty-one. They saw it coming, the biblical men.

" Tried to get up my garters, that virus". No, not my face. Indeed, I protect my face with high-sunblock. It is a number sixty-nine. I picked up some of that high sunblock in a pharmaceutical tavern. Well, there's other ways the sixty-nine position is used. I'm far from one track minded. As you may have noticed. Mind you, when it works, it's pretty swell. Being wrapped up in the sixty-nine. Yes, that's what I'm humming and haring about. Got to do something whilst those couple of swells ; my former old man and his dolly-bird dance.

They've waltzed into the kitchen now. Supposedly bringing me a treat. I'm not sure why they asked me round to this particular neck of the woods in town. I guess they see me as their dolly-bird. I mean, I was used left right and centre pushing bunnies out my oven. My umbilical chord is still stinging. Forty-eight hours on Hampstead Heath. Waiting for labour pains to complete. They played drums on my tum. Yes they did. God knows what they are coo-noodling now. In the kitchen of a white house with a spiralling staircase. There is even a naughty room at the very top. They like their play-dens.

The wife isn't out of town, is she now ? I think she's taken off with a Swiss banker. A few of those kinds of types tried to run holes in my stockings. I threw them in the bin. Don't like men with money who haven't got honey.

What are they doing in the kitchen ? Thoughts stream through my mind. I'm on cloud nine. ' Get on with it you nineteen- forties old timers. If you invited me here to be your one girl audience. Hurry up, I have my own dress-rehearsal. I'm being scouted you know. Better late than never. Age is only a number. If we all worry about age, we'd all be over the hill at blinking sixteen. That's when the game of life sets in. As far as I'm concerned, as long as I use my mother's magic cream. Plus, now of-course my black dog sticks to me like glue.

I'm ready to burn the hatchet. Both ends are working. Ends of the Regent Canal. I quite like that run on "Primrose Hill". Well, "James Bond" lives there, so why can't I too ? We might cross paths on "Strawberry Hill". I'm not sure who would pull the gun faster. He or I ? Don't think you yanks are the only one's who can pull a trigger. Farmers grand-daughter sitting here. I wasn't just born just an artists souvenir.

" FINALLY ". The two dancing old-timers. She's wearing my beaded mannequin shawl. The tart on my old mans arm. Best swingers in town. They are so." What have they pulled out the pot ?" Chocolate cake ! I lick my lips. "Just for me, they made it, just for me". How can I resist ? On entering my abode. They're both high, on endorphins. Mother moon flutters her eyelashes above the clouds. I'm spaced out already. I shouldn't be here you see. Anything goes to keep things calm at this end of town. Florence Nightingale's wand has her uses.

Out of the blue, I'm served by a gold tray with a huge chocolate cake. Home-made by Caprice. She was always a sucker for pleasing the big-boys. He's considered big as he used to sing at "Talk Of The Town". She used to kiss his toes. Not that they were anything worth kissing. He had no toe-nails, hardly. All were bitten by running away from dusty orphanage's, covering themselves with other kinds of disguise. The wicked get their teeth into children's dens. We got many perverts on our planet to blinking put a label on. A few got their due recently. Their comeuppance. Another lot lie in hope they don't get the chopping block. We know the story. Once bitten twice shy. Your sickness lies in your lower -half under your trousers gentleman. Then you have the audacity to complain how much money you spent on your own blinking weakness. A few dumb women you nailed. Think they will do, if your lower-half gets hungry. Shame that your money ran out. Imagine how many more dumb chicks you could have pulled.

I think outload, as I accept their offering of cake. It's chocolate after all, my biggest weakness. I'm now a one girl band of my own kind of brand. Got a few nice cosy musicians ready to jump on in my wagon. At least the crazy one's I dated on past life-lifts. Hitched me a few good tips.

"The chocolate cake tastes marvellous ".

The room is suddenly going round and round 'what's going on ?'

I'm hitting a dizzy spell. I can see from my dizzy eyes, those two my former old man and his female tart lifting me up into the air. I must be having double-vision.

"Where are they taking me ?" Up the spiral staircase, I'm laid down on a bed. Now they got their fangs out. Looks like we going to have a threesome with chocolate cake.'

'Come on Inside' my chocolate cake threesome.

The more the merrier. You might learn something about games of passion.

Love threesomes might be better way of putting it.

All tied in one knot.

Forget me knot !

How could anyone forget me !

"Did You Know Delila Read It ?"

Delila Reddit ( pen/stage name)

Yvette Louise Melech