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Motorcyclists in Mother Spain~o~Motorcyclists in Mother Spain
The Motorcyclists in Mother Spain
The invisible trains are moving through the fair where you stand, And today's 2'o'clock greets you with beautiful pieces from the morning light. The watercolors swimming on your Sunday dress, Sing a song upon revolutionary wings, And sound, from what I can understand, Like the crisp, sophisticated humming of grapefruit from the trees of far away under the exactness of the knife. Here is the place where the warmest winds kiss and quarrel in their spirals of thorns, And love songs – from the mouths and lips of they, whose voices come i
by ~toocloseforcomfort
Paprika and Bread~o~Paprika and Bread
Paprika and Bread
"Edes viz!", the green-eyed men and boys would sing, With flowers and paprika in hand, Quenched and yearning from a dip into the Danube, Her motherly flow encumbering their naked legs, Lifting the hairs of their powerful necks, Coppery and warm, Hun-like in the stubbornness of shadows
The women there, with a blue ribbon on each audible smile, From their throbbing gardens of Bodza, Petals buttery and quiet, From their illuminated windowsills, Alive in every ivy reaching all the curtains flying, Are ladies of lad
by ~toocloseforcomfort
An Unpleasant Stroll On A D...~o~An Unpleasant Stroll On A D...
An Unpleasant Stroll On A Dark Night In A Dim Place
A walk in the nighttime, A stroll in the dark 'Round bloodthirsty hedges, Between bridges that bark My mind's eye blinked twice, And my vessel walked on The clouds shifted in silence, Like the coldest desert dawn
Oh, walk a little faster
In the corner were crickets, Crying hard on the street, Tears came from the wolves, Circling at my feet Well, the willow reassured me, That I'll never wake up, That this was a terrible, true story, One I could never make
by ~toocloseforcomfort
Martin~o~Martin
Martin (An Old Soul Takes A Seat)
Keep your eyes fixed on that lonely place, Up to the beacon on that old, worn shore,
And watch for him as he comes outside, Then steps into the lighthouse door
Up he goes ’round eerie, weathered walls, Past curtains filled with stitches and tears, Climbing up to something sweetly mundane, Up those creaking, crooked stairs
Closer to a spiraling nightlight, To patterns and pedals he couldn’t wait to meet And at a flimsy, worn piano bench, An old soul takes a seat
Alone with keys which feig
by ~toocloseforcomfort
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Kareem Rizk @ ARTSPROJEKT!
really like your stuff!
c'ya around
p.s....welcome
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Thou shalt remember that guns, bitches and bling were never part of the four elements and never will be.
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