Beatle Juice

by Glenn Buttkus

Sauntering in the headlands
this magenta morning, with Beatles
blithe-fully billowing over my face
like a Mumbai scented scarf,
I looked up to find Lucy O’Donnell
astride her white stallion prancing
across the electric blue with impunity,
galloping with her diamond head back,
her rainbow feathers fluttering as
I lie down in deep clover, faint
from distant incense, falling
into a tambura daydream,

my face aglow with wet kisses
from Mother India, staring at sensuous
swirling marching rows of violet eyes,
become breathless beneath the staggering
weight of billions, a teeming tower
of beautiful humanity rising like rabid
brilliant orange moon blossoms,
arms intertwined, back to belly,
swelling humungous into a cumulus navel
with me squarely at the crux,
on the sweaty bottom,

John and George returned
in perfect harmony, all four
Liverpool lads blending superbly
into one stentorian voice,
our voice, my voice bouncing high
off the Taj facade, becoming liquid
silver chaliced Ganges wine,
muddied, bloodied, littered with
fat yellow flower petal corpses,
teasing the anxious quivering lips,
reflecting demons in its burgundy depths
as it slid past our tattered welcome mats,
and was gulped into our awaiting mouths;

bitter at first, heady on the prow of our tongue,
suddenly rendering itself into soft embrace,
honey-humming as it dropped down
our bare throats, sweet at last, devouring
every yellow pepper note with
our reluctant yet eager swallow.

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