SEASONED

I'm a seasoned reasoner reasoning and it's really sweet: the prospect of you conceivably feasibly needing me, indiscreetly,
(tongue in cheek?)/
then the seasoning's deleted like genes, essential for proteins and my being, from my body and just salt's left on my cheeks: I concede that more reasoning leads to my dreams being depleted completely by reality/
The smell of cardamom's no longer on my face, mentally, as my heart's unfortunately free to stop beating/
Meanwhile, we're in India indefinitely/
Where did we land? Am I in ya? Wet, are we?/
I've never before planned a spell in a forest, for rest, a plane rolled us into/
Any chance one could roll us two into a joint like we're weed, so we could be in bed together under paper-thin sheets, and get wet together; transfer heat when kept together?/
What new lines have I got?/
Could I make some light stop at your eyes to give my mind a minor shot of adrenalized inspiration like you're a writer's block and I just see lines until your heart melts and I find a lovelock opens like your legs' thighs during menstruation?/
Where are we?/
Not location. I mean is this a game of hesitation?/
I'm fine with saturation if you're into masturbation/
I'm into meditation if it's you I end up facing: call that divination. You're my mental medication and my central fascination/
Exhale like I didn't fail at inciting your excitation, sticky drips of sweat looking like set bindis on your forehead, as my gaze cuts the path to the stone that's ostensibly levitating, with me a stone's throw away from your hot face wet with anticipation/
That's sharp/
If my head moves like my heart, it's racing/
You're well-red and wet/
Will you sell a suitable suit-case in this forest?,
coz whoever the suit was you're with can get in there to live/
The case of an ex, yeah?/
If it's me, would you care to put your underwear in it?/
So I can still get high if feeling under the weather and if we're not in it together?/
But . . .
This rhyming's so mind-numbing compared to your eyes that I find I'm thumbing my forehead when I can't find them with mine,
my thumb's as cold as ice as I'm,
like these are pressing issues: your temper-ament's on my mind/
I've a headache as I mentally swim over acres of my wet eyes, wearing thick wear that's loose-fitting, 'til they're clearly clear and dry (and I think I'm bare) but I still can't find any strong enough lines/
See, I'm trapped in a desert and can't even find any grapevines,
like I'm a non-guy in Saudi Arabia, if X died and rights were replaced with what's left: lies/
I'd say 'open your eyes', but they're not mine/
Tell me if you're listening? I can't even tell the day from night/
It changes like these days days and nights that are all the same are a signal for an S.O.S.: for three days, nights, days I'm in distress, unless I turn to one who's like a mistress/
Cold, hot, cold, like sex in Antarctica's west, or the rest/
I can't even tell if this rap's telling you that I'm obsessed/

******

- Christine and the Queens - Here feat. Booba (Clip Officiel) (2016, February 9)

(https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=KpMqpqUhmtg)
- t.A.T.u. - All The Things She Said (2002)
(https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=8mGBaXPlri8)

- X
www.x.com