The Hippie and The Gypsy



Herpes Hippie

She slumps along the sidewalk, her broken Birkenstocks chipping cork against the hardened heels of her dirty day-old feet. She shrouds her head with lifeless clumpy-candlewick dreads. And her back tilts down at a 35-degree angle, but her boobs are not nearly big enough to be the cause.
She is the shamed who slums.
Sprouting gentile warts and herpes from an acid-reflex orgy, the skin on her face is green blotchy and bumpy with disease; maybe she can hide it with a beanie.
Still, while she was skinny-dipping in the pond earlier, a little boy mistook her for a toad.  That is why her mother always told her, “Never do it with a guy who is fifty-five years too old.”

  ❂   ☮   ❂   ☮   ❂   ☮   ❂   ☮   ❂   ☮   ❂

                                            Tipsy Gypsy

Wine wings frame her upper lip, burping bubbles with a grapey taste.  Her wrists swirl, clapping bracelets in a tingling wave.  She stumbles barefoot upon the road and falls over a toad, stubbing her knee on the sidewalk. Croaking from beyond her crooked teeth, she laughs while she kisses the toad’s webbed beige feet.
With foggy wandering downcast eyes and purple stained eyelids, she watches the figure shift.  She kisses the toad’s lumpy lips, smudging her lipstick. The toad leaps. Her arms float in dance while her olive skin sweats mascara down her cheeks.
“Winds of the seas and the trees, make this toad a human being! Then I can learn to see, then my wisdom will not be tipsy.”


*Characters and events are completely fictional.  Any similarities they may have to someone living or dead, or any specific incident from present or past is entirely coincidental. 

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