Choral and gospel babe's reciting a poetry
in a modern way. She is a choclate griotto
wrapped up in a southern comfort gown.
He guessed her amazingly hot origin from musicality in her velvety dark mane, in her ****, humming womanly voice. Appealing much as her bountyful body.
The excellerating vocal interpretation gaudied the lingering air surrendering to those poetic sounds coming from her to us, over and over again. If you want! Reciting some of the longer Jim's poems. In a dark room, remembered, spoken, where the cardinal curtains were shading the late afternoon beams. To get the genuine gut feeling ~ that"s something marvelously mysterious ~ as poetry ~ per se ~ is reeling all around. Having the great impact on the listeners.
In another room across the Atlantic, just about few seconds before he saw her; quite an awkward idea have popped up : how identity unmistakebly identifies with the one-self in relation to relatives according to the grand relativity theory blurring a lot who's who among ancestor's honey glued lineage ... sprited like a helium baloon taken off the ground, up, having fun in the wide open bolstering from one white puffy figure grown out of the wildest indigo and cerulean heaven deeply falling in the prodigal fractalistic mannierisms dancing through the ultimate void as franticly beautiful Shakti having a blast with her Primordial man. Shiva the Creator ! Who poured, burnt and purred the poem's punctuation points into the poet's heart, tongue, soul and sprinkled them in between insightful words on the vintage parchment.
Calligraphy images painted delicately in black ink on and have succesfully enhanced the artistically written haiku poems. In a book of poetry of another Author. From the land of sushi, robots and hi-tech dreams. The differece of being a straightforward contemporary creator to the one who sits silently under cherry blossoms beauty. Accepting the roots, harsh cosy tree trunk, breathing winds and the revolutions, sanities and insanities of mad Sun eruptions, spots and freckles on cute girls marching into the bright light, day after night, might after fight. The Inward diving.
Abstract phenomena. Silences. Was it any good!? Life has thought me about the cunning words. Happy random words like kiss, miss, beau, slurp, ice-cream delight, giggles, wonderful smiles, cherry lips, cherish your beloved ~ dear darling ~ la lingua. But please, never say that I should love difficult, occult words as purge, purgatory, creteins etc.
Swear, baby - if you want it! ****! sweet *****! Move your hips, pointilists would point your *******, and made a swooshing swing, gladly tightening the narrow silky ropes around those fabulous moving hills.
What's the point of this poem!? Finding the existentialist in Finnland drinking a deliciously innocent yoghurt. Crashing into a Canadian household having the burglar tools pined up to your belt, not knowing about the utmost honesty of the open doors and hospitability. Surfing on effervescent waves along Seyshelles, being outsmarted by a slick dolphin taking your gigantic wave. Transcending from a cop to a couplet master.
Poetic friends! Being a poet is *****! A total ******! A ***** Wonka going ballistic! A postcard from hell send through transgression, transforming living cosmic beams and biiii bi bips. . . . Reaching beyond the larva and a cocoon stage.
I am. Stars we admire. Stars we praise. Stars who aspire. The union. The Bellevue. Be bop was kinda cool. Was not my thing... Be blogs. Be brave. Bear. Beer. Be on. Neon. Liberty.
Strange Musings Upon Many Begotten Realms