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lobelia321Okay, I've finally lost the plot and gone ahead and written Kaká/Cristiano Ronaldo. This is mildly experimental because, gads, it was the only way I could contain my madness via prose. Um, written to the musical accompaniment of man-on-man vids.
Under a Portuguese Sun
by Lobelia
Ricardo Izecson dos Santos Leite, also known as Kaká, sits on a fence in Lisbon.
Behind him, the sun sinks into the Atlantic Ocean.
Next to him, leaning against a cork tree, stands Cristiano Ronaldo.
A monkey runs past, chasing its tail, but neither of the two notice.
Kaká stretches his arms over his head.
And nearly topples off the fence.
Cristiano reaches over to steady him. His hand slips on the warm skin of Kaká's bare upper right arm.
"Wait," says Cristiano, in the accent that sends termites into Kaká's solar plexus.
In the distance, white clouds emerge from a red chimney stack.
Cristiano leans over and brushes his lips across Kaká's cheek.
"Aftershave," he says.
Kaká says nothing. Closes his eyes.
His eyebrows are curves on his forehead.
Cristiano's eyebrows angle in a V. His neck is a stork's neck.
A steamer hoots on the horizon. Picture-book gulls screech past.
Perspiration pearls on the top of Kaká's upper lip.
Cristiano's nose is pressed into the side of Kaká's neck.
There are cucumbers in the azure sky.
Cristiano slips his hand underneath Kaká's T-shirt and onto the warm skin of his bare belly.
A shiver shivers there.
"Wait," says Kaká in the accent that sends flies buttering up the back of Cristiano's throat.
But Cristiano doesn't.
Wait.
Won't.
Can't.
Can't hold back.
Spindthrift on waves.
Beads of moisture between the hairs on the back of Kaká's lower arm. His knuckles grow white. They tauten around the metal bar of the fence.
"Oh," he says, in an accent not even of this world.
His hair is mussed although the breeze? The breeze is negligible.
His head falls sideways. It flops onto Cristiano's shoulder, against Cristiano's head, his mussed hair against Cristiano's brushed hair.
It's possible to keep balance on a fence with only one hand. You don't need two.
"Oh," says Cristiano.
"Oh," say the clouds that fly on the wing.
A troupe of birds with grey-and-pink feathers like the foliage of exotic trees flaps its wings in crazy concert and takes off.
Nothing like the speed of flight. Or the arc of a soaring ball Or the beat of a heart in the summer's heat.
Cristiano Ronaldo
Kaká
Under a Portuguese Sun
by Lobelia
Ricardo Izecson dos Santos Leite, also known as Kaká, sits on a fence in Lisbon.
Behind him, the sun sinks into the Atlantic Ocean.
Next to him, leaning against a cork tree, stands Cristiano Ronaldo.
A monkey runs past, chasing its tail, but neither of the two notice.
Kaká stretches his arms over his head.
And nearly topples off the fence.
Cristiano reaches over to steady him. His hand slips on the warm skin of Kaká's bare upper right arm.
"Wait," says Cristiano, in the accent that sends termites into Kaká's solar plexus.
In the distance, white clouds emerge from a red chimney stack.
Cristiano leans over and brushes his lips across Kaká's cheek.
"Aftershave," he says.
Kaká says nothing. Closes his eyes.
His eyebrows are curves on his forehead.
Cristiano's eyebrows angle in a V. His neck is a stork's neck.
A steamer hoots on the horizon. Picture-book gulls screech past.
Perspiration pearls on the top of Kaká's upper lip.
Cristiano's nose is pressed into the side of Kaká's neck.
There are cucumbers in the azure sky.
Cristiano slips his hand underneath Kaká's T-shirt and onto the warm skin of his bare belly.
A shiver shivers there.
"Wait," says Kaká in the accent that sends flies buttering up the back of Cristiano's throat.
But Cristiano doesn't.
Wait.
Won't.
Can't.
Can't hold back.
Spindthrift on waves.
Beads of moisture between the hairs on the back of Kaká's lower arm. His knuckles grow white. They tauten around the metal bar of the fence.
"Oh," he says, in an accent not even of this world.
His hair is mussed although the breeze? The breeze is negligible.
His head falls sideways. It flops onto Cristiano's shoulder, against Cristiano's head, his mussed hair against Cristiano's brushed hair.
It's possible to keep balance on a fence with only one hand. You don't need two.
"Oh," says Cristiano.
"Oh," say the clouds that fly on the wing.
A troupe of birds with grey-and-pink feathers like the foliage of exotic trees flaps its wings in crazy concert and takes off.
Nothing like the speed of flight. Or the arc of a soaring ball Or the beat of a heart in the summer's heat.
Cristiano Ronaldo
Kaká