CREAM FILLED EASY THING

We were naked in those days like two eight year olds’ playing doctor.

The sponge layers of discovery of life’s caramel and industrial flavoured painted depths were exposed to us like one enormous dessert trifle gone completely bold.

We the seekers of the holy grail of sensual confectionary, and a whole lot of other stuff, discovered it far tastier than gold and forever younger than sweetened fruit leather packed into lunch pails.

Deliberate rumination as well as fast-shallow-breathed-contemplation could be had for all time, once we each realized we finally had loves young dream with pants fully down.

Sweating and pushing raw against the scrutiny of living room light we became pagan again like all life worshippers already should have been.

We entered the existent state of both food and consumption that we tried at all moments to become pregnant with.

And after that one continuous interval of plunge into creaminess, we were changed.

Our neighbours, Barbie and Ken, for example, now looked just like little plastic dolls.