Tree Run

These huge flowers in a constellation of vulcanic ashes do not permit any more to observe which worlds you had your departure from. What mysterious lights were burning in the fireplace of your eyes and with what unknown, unforgettable, tireless sparks, your heart was trembling. Let’s leave everything and go deaper, where no one will find us broken and bent.

The run is getting stronger in the rain season. Donk, donk, donk, the drum spreads the beat on the pine and linden tops.

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Finally Getting a Strange Hair-Do

A tormented feeling of lame duckling due to the unwanted precaution, has brought our guy to the fellows.

The sickness of not needing to leave this bewildering beauty accomodates for some of the most righteous motions in the inner seclusion.

Whenever a different volume is possible for you to restructure as an organizational chart, you will be able to enter the luxurious moment of trembling in the frivolous aircraft.

Getting below the point on the Northern Polar ice, they must come to a significant motion in future.

Come and we shall, too, believe in what has been done wrong in order for their feet to be able to keep up with the pace of lightning.

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Ashes in the Hair

Burning sun of a Southern quay-land has licked the ashy haze on the curly hair tips. The dark skin is glistening with myriads of stars that argue with you, the native of a Northern suburb, with a countless ocean of local flowers, bushes, leaves, fingers, hands, birds, and turns of the air. A severe puncture comes from a boiling accordion – you are ready to dive, sing and make eyes at the surrounding fishermen.

‘The winter is approaching,’ a homeopath would mention when you kicked him out of our dwelling the morning you returned from your mysterious pilgrimage to the district of central boulevards. The gaspers outline their edges that have been blurred by the hundred-year winds, so that an ungenerous, slightly pricked smile à la habitual doña can be brewed out.

A mannequin-like crowd on the seaside reverses the bow of the horizon exactly on the axis where the Earth will seem wider. A guitar bursting more and more entwines with the birdsongs and the movements of an artist lost in a labyrinth of the laconic Medieval boredom, dressed in a tulle tutu and a hood, which do not anymore obey to the draught concealed in the corner of an old street. A flock of monks in thick white clothes sincerely smiles at the young chaps who have not been touched by the pleasures of Platonic amazement yet.

Your body is engulfed in a tiger-coloured tunic that was given to you by an Italian escort the day when amazed  whoops on the banks of the Seine were designating her a princess.

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Meeting at the Sea Port

River bank. A night, a thick and wet fog is touching his eyes. The eyelids are slightly closed. He is hiding shrinkingly under the wings of the porch dressed in Adidas sports clothes. He is beautiful, unbelievably beautiful – not like in fairy-tales, but better. Long and unsettled blonde hair is streaming down his shoulders. The white light of lanterns is reflected in the drops hanging in the air. The lips are shut in a speechless smile. Slightly leaning forward and touching the art school railings, he is whispering a “hello”. From the day, this voice has been only a bit lagging behind the stream of time, which confidently tears apart everything it comes across.

The smells of withering flowers, an unutterable infinity, are kept in us as the Ancient Romans’ sacramental ritual for the reburial of the body-parts of warriors who had fallen in an uphill battle against Goliath. Your faithful hands and the touches of your finger-tips towards my hair at the prison’s slope-side when I am telling you of my most secret plans, have been alive as the moth butterflies who had not burnt in the flames of all other slanting eyebrows, sharp-edged cheeks and neatly defined ears.

The small town lights turned inside out add colour to the sky, which has tipped over as a copper harbour and cannot be taken away from you and me. These heavy chains of the coffee brewer with a tired elephant-like education are trembling over the streetway being an inflated hot-air balloon, which layers are sown from the petinet of our lively love custard. Small or large, their loops and swings have led us to the place where an exiled priest in a black soutane with aiguillette and a red ribbon belt betroths us alone in a shattered hall, on the other side of windows of which, there is a barb-wire of the evergreen forest tropically illuminated by the fragrances of herbs. Ecclesiastically crisply, yet high-pitched piercingly and sly, abruptly exulting, he fills the space with volumes of the Amazing Grace.

Rustles of the blue headnut of an atmosphere girding all of the island will not anymore  calm the flings of consciousness when you are not near. We will memorize it well so we can believe and see in each flower that still hasn’t bursted out its complete shine, a potential for a whole polyamide rainbow of colours, which you gave me at the day of our pretending to rescue one another.

Stained socks from the rays, I clean in the glances and sentiments of the experience of this room that has a window always wrapped in shrapnel, flowery screens and a drapery before a bed well oiled by a talkative firefighter. Squeaking grey tunes are  only possible here to be done by the floor that hangs on the tide-storm pumped wave of the tenderness of your “do not go”. We will fly together after the formation of wild ducks following the path each virgin sculpture, not yet burnt by the thousands of rumours, is destined to follow. Your half word will not anymore present a fear but rather stand like an unveiled beauty of nature, in the bleating mouth-harp of which there will be no more spot for alert.

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