Cryogenic roses

(Sissy, So long)

Standing in a wind tunnel with no exists, forced to laugh or cry all the time, I look forward to where the walls converge, into the wide open arena of fluid hopes.
Possibly the perfect shape is a sphere, the perfect cube is a shapeless nude, the perfect moment to talk is during a moonwalk and of course the perfect moment to hold your breath is when you dream for a second of most palpable ireality.
Keep the roses at minus 273 Celsius and they’ll look like ancient hieroglyphs of adoration.
Swim to win a bucket of tears to use it as a pillow on a low bed of grass.
Phantom at the museum sings loudly the Ode of Joy, chews carrots, what’s up doctor, you have a circle on your head, White Princess, let me show you the gallery of obtuse mirrors and you can ask them if you can see me or if you can see what you have never seen before.
A moose begs me to read him some Dostoyevsky, I tell him it’s not a humorous reading, he says it’s okay, I just wanna feel alive after so many winters with splinters in my lungs.
Each drop of rain looks at me frowning like I’m a kind of strange mushy object interfering with its ascending path to the unification with the great ocean.
Rev up your fists, banish the swan from her nest at the marble arch at the entrance of your secret life in vein or in Cain’s name, tune your vision to catch all the subtleties and mergers of fighting bulls and indifferent love at the sixteenth sight.
What if my tent is full of twinkling stars and I cannot scratch them off, they’re stuck on the impermeable covering and I’m trying really hard to clean them and it takes me the whole night, no, I’m not insomniac and the morning comes, I’m tired, there is light on the meadow and strange footprints and steamy dew.
You okay? There are orchids for sale at the bay and snail with jazz bands on their foreheads, they’re all waiting for you.
Change your mind with a seven year old Chinese mathematician genius boy and a joystick to move your eyeballs into the direction of sterilized truth.
Master of puppets plays checkers with rockets, the queen is caught off guard in her sleep and is declared independence, then she asks, You don’t love me anymore? No, Your Majesty, we don’t, why, it just happened, all of a sudden, we fell off the ladder on a rabbit of porcelain where we were keeping our affection for you.
Ring, ring, at the door, it’s the bell, wants inside, he went crazy, he thinks the house is a cathedral and he is a belfry, oh, shut up! leave me alone, I beseech you, or I’ll cut off the wall and replace you with the portrait of Dorian Gray, my boyfriend, yes, I’m seeing somebody else, happy? now you know, get used to it, scram, it’s 3am.

About Vlad Bunea

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