Refractory prisms

Refractory prisms as tears and dulcet bears instead of ears, pears and pages thrown at ages from the royal balcony, the swan smiles in agony, beautiful melody of joy.

Lucid observations of the rain of oil over the bonfires, chants to the gods, Give us water for our crops, gives us hope for tomorrow, give us a black crude sun that beatifies our bodies with a perfect African complexion, in all the colors of the palette of a color blind grandkiddo of Picasso, what the hell, we have the right to yell, we have the ambition to lobby a certain politician named Bobby, and the inspiration of a rendition of old epiphanic speeches on the beaches of a green sandless coast, where hurricanes spare the canes of old cripples and artificial nipples, Who cares that Naples is the new Venice, drowned it its own waters, gondolas carrying old fagolas, both happy and sad, too bad my old dad could not watch this show, on tv, and the future will grow, rains will be oilier than ever, crows will be pigeoner than ever, ever will be used and abused, muses will bow and say in chorus ciao.

About Vlad Bunea

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