What is love

(photo by werol)

She was prevented from running home by a thought that grew like real person in her head then stepped out of her body through her mouth and said stop.
He was prevented from running home by her thought that grew in his mind like a real person then stepped out of his body through his nose, grabbed him by the hose and pulled him back.
Viruses object, syringes for some reasons don’t stay erect, reactionary elements break the glass or break the ice and distribute euphemisms to the masses.
Manicure, Madame, cofure and bombastic sleeves of silk, my God, I’ve got a drop of milk in my Dom Perignon, I’d like seven virgins immediatly, for compensation.
The Robin Hood of my fuel-efficient car, a dent in a perfect arrow made totally of diamonds.
Hallelujah, my son won a scholarship in Fallujah; he’s passionate about dictionaries and an avid pebble collector.
Long face of expressionless top models of futuristic buildings, hold the breasts above the water level as floating devices for survivors from recent tropical rainstorms.
Stormtroopers play with frozen yogurt, bite dummy bullets, pull each others legs, pull each others ears, have no fear, have no tear.
Humming while raking gardens of silence, no weeds, no pestilence.
Put enormous pressure on the wound, maybe the numbness wll make the heart forget its past.
Do we still love while we are asleep, are dreams a part of the unity with the Other?
Colder than ever, atoms agitated file complaints, there’s plenty of space on the plains, it remains what he collision of light and delight has left behind.
Minutes of procreation, centuries of starvation, little playgrounds on my wrist, I grab the sceptre, I cannot resist and declare emergency heaven in my garden.
After resurection Jesus retreated to his villa on the French Riviera, and Mary Poppins brought him tea every day at five o’clock, wrapped in a ledger with well-indexed prayers.
Spirit floating over the house sees a neighbourhood soaked in letargy and strawberry juice, impeached by the sunset over the new highway of porcelain.
Cellos race to the train station to catch the Tschaikowski expresso with late latte for gifted children.
Invasion to get to the poppy seeds stuck in he molar of an Afgan flutist before he learns about Mozart.
There is a superstring crawling on my nose, I can smell it, it reminds me of the scent of a decomposed universe and a composition for two entangled straws and one tropical cocktail.
Rocket-shaped eggs twaddle in a bucket, how will they lock it, lock what?, the pocket in the space station and floating juices of monetary inconsequencies.
A peacock yoddles on a larch, cries for March, the arch that brings him glory, he can’t say sorry, the lumberjack brings an axe and tell the peacock to relax.
Accelerating to the velocity of an olympic scheduled penetration of marital potency and extramarital latency.
The Little Prince ate the boa snake that ate the elephant that ate a hat, Little Prince’s hat, his only regret, low in calories to mix it with jellybeans.
What is love if not an eternal pulsating thought in the heart’s mind?
If we walked on the sky and forests were clouds, would an atomic bomb look like a giant tear falling on us?
Baby born on the brink of a geyser look at the mother as at a monolith of fleshy lava.

About Vlad Bunea

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