Violent tendencies

I am a fan of the hit and run.

To not stay on 'til morning.

To believe it is of no consequence,

nor sentiment.

Until it is.

And it rips out your insides.

Foutre

French wine, ofcourse.

Slow sex in eyes over appetisers.

Garlic come cream come fettucine come on.

Dhaka demure and Danone dalliances.

Riding home a whiff of sin and scandal scents the car.