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Maria Mitea Jun 16
The Provocation on Highway 401

There will always be a provocation, temptation, elation
Someone inviting you for a fresh breath to take in, and out
when you,  day-to-day maker are driving, loving, or maybe make money
with a hummer in your hand hitting on a red iron.

Hey, you two, and three, five four, or maybe ten, and even thirteen
on a pin-up, or pin down you choose to live in Bohemia, or maybe,
not, or again maybe free love, wanderer, adventurer, or vagabond
with a hoarse voice, will invite you "Going Out West", and change your name.

I am in, even though I don't know what I mean, Please, before I start to write let me park at WalsMart, and my apology if you feel ignored or bored.
I have an important encounter on Wikihead with Tom Waist, intrigued if he meant anatomy or a cut of meat from the leg of a lamb, or maybe he liked to be, or feel in between for the rest that moved in thin blood and sotto voices.

I pulled in, and find out that Tom Waist was born after the ussr famine,
agogy to see what lives in his guts, what a bad habit, "girl! go back and read what's the challenge about." I hold in from searching his words and thoughts that he played on a yellow paper, and think " Hm, he was born after the famine, his music and poetry must've been concocted from hunger starving for life itself." I click one more time wikihead, and I see that indeed he did all he could do on earth and not only, but he also dug underbelly, living in between starving his audience to tears with his hoarse voice and appetite for art. Then I need him more. I can feel how he invites us all for artistic addiction, and I need him more, on a smartphone, I am digging his music and stumble in the "House where nobody lives", bursting into tears.

There will always be a provocation, temptation, elation
Someone inviting you for a fresh breath to take in, and out
when you day-to-day maker drive, love, or maybe make money
with a hummer hittng on a red iron,
Hey, you two, and three, five four, or maybe ten, and even thirteen
on a pin-up, or pin down you choose to live in Bohemia, or maybe,
not, or again maybe free love, wanderer, adventurer, or vagabond
with hoarseness in his voice, will invite you "Going Out West",
and change your name.

I read again and again, and one more time I listen on a spot fyi " Going Out West", and asking if this was the "voodoo ... , I am gonna make myself available to you" without losing your composure you have your "voodoo" means that brought me back in tears in the "House where nobody lives", ones, hey, you two, and three, five four, or maybe ten, and even thirteen on a pin-up, or pin down you choose to live in Bohemia, or maybe, not, or again maybe free love, wanderers, adventurers, or vagabonds with hoarse voices will invite you "Going Out West", and change your name.

Hm, is W coming from Waist?
Thomas W Case Thank you for this challenge on Highway 401!
Thomas W Case 15h Challenge,
Simone Jan 2017
Out West I found that
Dangerously glittering bohemian lifestyle.

Where Los Angeles falls down with joy
And rumbles deep from its canyon bellies

And when you need some sadness
You split to Berlin
And come back with none of your clothes.
scar Jun 2015
Of a night on a battered red leather sofa
It's moved with us three times
It sits in a room with a broken bay window
And we sit on it too
And we sit on it too

Drinking yellow anise from mismatched glasses
With ice, not warm water
Singing stories, spinning yarns with broken bottles
Of girls with leopard-print hands
And the straw man in the moon
The straw man in the moon.

The cord hangs on the wall:
A symbol, but not symbolic
As chords rise, break off and fall
All a sham, but not shambolic
A sham, but not shambolic.

Swapping tales and anecdotes of cars parked between cake stalls
And days with names that don't suit them
People dying for causes they don't understand
And war is an island; a land hyperbolic
A Green land, a war land; unplanned hyperbolic.

Linguistics are twisted and brass tales are dropped
A cork is unwrapped from the web where it popped
But the darkness is rising, the hours are ticking
The side is hitched up so we all know we're doomed.
We hear children singing in the guitar strings,
Their screeches rising as they fall,
Our speeches diving as they fall.

And speaking of speeches, he says, a performance is mine
But in France, man... in France the markets are open
And the fields of Provence roll down to the menhirs of Carnac
And Brocéliande lies to us all,
And Brocéliande lies to us all.
So much adds to her, oh where do I begin,
Her sharp green eyes like emeralds on her sun kissed skin

Her bangles clang while her boots thud
My heart races when she walks near, I'm afraid she could hear
And I notice she smells of sweet rose buds

She is unique, with her Beatles shirt
and her short white skirts
Her infectious smile, shaming the stars
I swear, I'm her biggest admirer

Her hair drapes over her shoulders, falling down her back
Gentle waves of cascading auburn hair
She's the definition of beauty, to be exact

Like a summers night, like the last light of day
Like the harvest moon, it takes all my will to hold my swoons at bay

I love this Bohemian girl, with her oddities and all
My lovely bohemian girl, she keeps me enthralled
A name to grace my lips, never so sweet;
Ivy
And now my love is complete

— The End —