"manouche" poems
a twist of legs, a sort of side jump shadow
getting wild behaviour to its happy roots
no-body can resist to this merry-go-round
virus
“amour” is the only word remained in his dictionary
the only drink accepted in his clans like a shard
of life sparkling greater than the sun itself
ashy
moustache hides a strange confidence when
lifted from the always-filled glass
with potion called
manouche
in the eyes of Lewis he caresses
the immortal chords
© Marius Surleac
Apr 30, 2010
Apr 30, 2010 at 9:59 AM UTC
I’m not missing you; I have
my cat.
My soft little shadow.
We’re perfectly happy
listening to jazz manouche
and taking selfies on the
floor together.
Jan 1, 2023
Jan 1, 2023 at 6:32 PM UTC