Golden braids, enameled brides, fluorescent bribes

Golden braids, enameled brides, fluorescent bribes, my Andalusian wives, it’s a wonderful afternoon on my private soporific island.

What if Joan of Arc, lost herself on Noah’s Ark, tempted by conversion to a zoologist or swimmer-marathonist?

Holy cowry, maroon angels playing in the morning breakfast with milk, rowing on a flake approaching the falls.

The horizon of honey is melting in my telescope.

Ghandification of homeless bicyclists with certified podiatrists to form the Great Union of Ghandified Cyclopodiatrists.

My cane was walking me for support, distort the infusion of time, like the ripple of a dime, tossed in a shallow narrow lake.

Worst case scenario, a curio full of medals and pedals, rusty chariots and Olympic parrots, history full of maggots is repeating like a flat disc world of vinyl.

Virgil whispered me in Greek that I can take a peak under Penelope’s mini, to see a mini Plato reading comic magazines and giggling his beard off.

Lady of stone, Chinese reform, a statue of virtue, sculptures and doctors, politics and antics, ruptures and vultures, it’s all a circus of angst and solitude amongst.

I cry for the sky that makes me obey, that makes me say I am a needle in the hay, yes my sky I will smoke your mist, I will use my fist, for all that matters I am a smiter, a child of eternal glitter.

Cells die, prisoners flock around like dandelion clocks, it’s time for a cure or pedicure for our amputated souls.

Seafloor bears the weights of liquefied humanity that never stopped producing sounds since the first spear was implanted in the first mammoth.

Mothers for oaths, fathers for boats, division of vision, treaty of peace, laughter in abyss.

Ticket for a timeless universe is like light asking itself what is darkness behind a mirror?

I will never have the intelligence for scientific dissidence, never the ambition of careeristic attrition, nor the verbosity for a sweet cherry cake motivational muscularity, but I will rest with the sun at its very east, patting ponds on their backs, throwing looks at flying bats.

Russian wholesale of Matryoshka dolls with very small cocktails inside, hurrah it’s raining in Siberia with seagulls, gulp the vodka, checkmate Perestroika, some bread for Africa and some Brad for Erica.

Washable ash stains the moon, we drink the gray from the craters, insatiable thirst, we feel no lust, space is dust, a pace to last, forever around the burning son.

Sun of freezing figments of our indigestion, teeth broken on stony slice of hope, doped with hymns about reincarnation of fossilized vegetation into singing tigers.

I feel so lucky, human beings are essentially fallacious, conceptually premeditated, that is only a matter of probability that the clash of two brains will generate a spring of genius.

About Vlad Bunea

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