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viernes, 13 de enero de 2017

S h e C R a w l s

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... she doesn´t pick the phone, she´s not answering; may be her sunnny hair´s not hearing the crowd outside calling the name of her no sleeping flowers, that because of a strange miracle accords to sound like her when lightning´s happening inside




smiling sunflower: silence´s a stone in the head when it comes from you, if that´s the best for me, to be born from your mouth, at least could just forget about looking for a graveyard; standing-stone-me in front of you, and a bee´s war sounds making my new afternoon, after all





she won, she don´t /would a black fella say/ she won´t... but what´s that she wants? milk and honey, silk and horns calling out the ants that´ve fulled up this room with her toes-print and the scent of her lingering laugh across the dark wood of my memory




patience, tempation, overcoming sunset like a plumb helmet, wonderful wounding, playing words in a music box with nothing else but a plastic dancer turning around herself like she would do when the sacred times to feel are ending




pick up the line at once, corn girl: thousands o´fishes are gonna fill up the hydrogenated air you taste as a victory with brightly eyes fixed to nowhere; I can tell you´ve never seen something like this, a dancing fishes horizon that strenght your eyes, till mix you with the dying sun at this sharped hour



pick up, let electronic days do their stuff; surely someone´s gonna pull up the other side´s line...






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