Photographic angle

(Tom Waits, Pasties and a G-String)

A photographic angle on the ankle from the top of the light of the crystal stairs, air is vibrating with ascending trepidations and tiny earthquakes in the heart.

Step into a canvas by a painter named Degas, I sit down, I look around, talk to the characters, correct the color on their faces, then I step out of the canvas, go and have dinner, you know all that thinner part of life.

Speak up, step up, bee right there on the supersmiling eyebrow, grab my arm, rest your palm.

Carry love with a wheelbarrow, use a shovel, use a rake, take a bunch, skip the lunch, bathe in love, sing a dove.

Sick of the sickle, tickle in the rag flag, the Russian Siberia of a sudden hysteria.

Check-mate, I ate the king and replaced him with a wooden ring.

What if the heart is a balloon with helium that would rise to the moons if it wasn’t for the heavy flesh and bones?

Able to open your door, kneel on your floor, draw the contour of your shadow on the wall, knead the air to make you space in the oval universe.

Prancing pennies on a string stretched along a whisper, echoing in the antechamber of your thoughts.

Soft cactuses and stingy tulips for an ethereal bouquet of oxymoronic anticipations of angels off-duty.

Mermaids never look back at their backs in the mirror, their magnetic skin is a tremor of the soul of an ancient kin.

Ferry tale on channel five with interference from your holographic eyes, look at you as at a solitary man traversing the Pacific in a marble raft.

Underground voltage connects volcanoes with venetian ambitions to make Sahara a better place for happy couples.

Fill the tank with seamen from self sufficient Viking ships and stir them well, collect the legends and feed them to the grandkids as bedtime stories.

Stop the kiss! Rewind to the War of Seven Roses that I missed.

Bricks and sticks for a hot hut on an iceberg, a decent home until the Titanic comes to rescue.

What a nice sunset on the ice, what a break, rays you cannot fake, let’s shuffle words and hold hands like a circular poem.

At twilight the harp tilted to the gravitational centre of the magma of the center of your circumspect feelings about the definition of love.

About Vlad Bunea

This entry was posted in Flash Fiction. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s