Shakespeare Martini

The sun bends lazy over the blue ocean
The sea tickles the wood feet of the empty esplanade
I didn’t mean to hurt you with the murmur of my heart
When I said love was at the gate of my veins
Lovely words do no broke strengthened hearts
The heat plays distortions on my mind through the fringe of times
Flaming with the hallucination of the wind ideas flow rapidly
Do I need to hear this voice that wails upon me?
The swordfish points its syringe to a duel
Past and future clash inside remembrances and forgetfulness
Embrace me deeply my lost love, my wounded heart sinks under my feet
In the sewer where romance don’t prevail
Martini sings its melody in a colored orange sunset
Sometimes it snows in April says the lyrics
But it’s June and sunny weather never drowns
On my boozy dizzy head, my boiled water of sorrows
Do I need to ear the non-sense of a green algae upon me?
It beats; of course it beats, sprinkles the heart that pumps my veins
Its not whisky its not vodka it’s a liquor jealousy that travels in me
Bottled cruelly with the poison of your staring blue in which you endeavor so often
The arts and crafts where your disrespect blossoms
You mislead me in the use of the outrageous power of my hurtful speech
Tickling the bells of a future untold and persecuted for the sparkle of happiness
Do I need to bend like a thin oak tree to your windy desires?
I am the bunch of grapes that you step to fulfill your thirst
The distilled alcohol of a wedding party that not even the engaged couples appear
The wrist broken in a lovers fight for the need of grabbing you
Like the hug of non-slept nights we had
I am the vivid and clear overcome of the emptiness of selves
I am the leak in the ceiling of your consistency
And latent, a huge river will rise in this chain of drops
Do I hear the drip that your eyes spill in the naked concrete?
Do I?
Do I have the strength dispersed through the pasted years of togetherness?
Should I embrace the future, leaving sorrows in the shoulder pad of the door?
Should I?
Are you not tired of the mockery of your stupid games of love?
The betrayal, the stories unspoken, and the rarely lovely words said
Are you counting all of the drops that you drop in the theatre of lust?
It’s the same theatre that you mount with tons of spectacle to deceive me.
And do I worth it?
Do I?
And this is not hunger that it is speaking - as your blundering brain might thing
It’s just a Shakespeare Martini babe, a Martini by the sunset.