Yes, yes, but what does it mean

Spirals ingurgitated without fear of recurrent obsessions for unspoken words, ungestured emotions, unsmiled happiness, uninvited dolphins into my heart, transplanted from your heart, time to depart.

I commend you, sword, to raise and sting the sun really hard, let its yolk sloop on your blade, feed my impatience with a solar omelette.

Alligators confused by flying sheep believe gods are angry at their relentless violence.

Yes, yes, but what does it mean when your eyebrows are fallen, the corner of your mouth pointing to the floor and you have those tiny watery spheres under your ocular globes?

Barbarians celebrate yet another empire ground to fit into tea bags, with lime please, thank you very much Mr. President, you’re welcome Marylyn Monroe.

A letter bursting with elephants from my gracious guardian explaining in plain straight nonmetaphoric language the beauty of a mute sunset in cast.

Application for an alteration of the soul with a medieval patch of hangover divine revelations.

Threshold of old parchments and new detachments from illusions, transfusion of hope from an old golden age direct into my morning black coffee.

Lift this word, look at the crawling ants under it, feel their channels, rain them some crumbs, numb perfection, plumb verticality of gigantic musicality.

Israel called Raphael, left a voice mail, left a male to guard all the exists from this precipice of eternal sunshine.

About Vlad Bunea

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