Monday, May 17, 2010

Free Littlest Pet Shop Clip Art

Amelia Acca


if I could write

if I could write a love poem in the world easier, the words should move from a slot, a bit 'like the camel that for millennia trying to squeeze through the eye of the needle, and I think I should write to February because February is a month a bit 'snubbed by those who discover love, not as evocative May or the final in December, and also that I would write it from between the household and useless knick-knacks in the kitchen - a pudding mold, a cup fake Chinese - comparing love some dough, to handle half of the coffee zone, the jar bread crumbs.
imagine it would be written in pencil so that all consumption is useless because a love poem that does not temper, who does not eat up all the way, as the last crumb of a good thing to eat, and that write it down, run away to the thrill of typos, grammatical errors, and I enjoy some of scopiazzatura to, for example high is the wall that borders the my way, and its Nudity is prolonged indefinitely straight, to raise the tone a bit 'resigned while neglecting the metric and issued at least two licenses, the prosthesis and syncope, but only because the poem easier the world would need special care.
then I think that if I write simple poetry of the world should keep her in your pocket for some because their pockets for the love poems are like wine cellars and I should not be rushed and retrieves all the scents that had when he was just a bunch already. and although it is easier to love poetry of the world, you consult the dictionary, a cartographer, even if the oracle serve, and then a carpenter, an expert of boats and a botanist, not to mention the cook or a caterpillar.
also love poetry easier at the end of the world should I resign myself to describe this blessed love and then get a little 'silent and after thinking about it, greatly, greatly, I would say, without wanting to be right, that love is a cramp.
point.






aestella

I that this letter will arrive on a Wednesday.
not know the grace with which the letters of Wednesday waiting for the hand that will take, just to weigh the turn where it is written the address to see if your name is just that name, if it is was written in haste, taking up very little space or, if there is a clue on the front of the consignor or, better, if you brought a seasonal smell, whether it is a little wavy from showers of rain or sun still crispy .
aestella,
as always I write from a sidereal time and not a day goes by that you do not think a god ordained as a serves lunch to prepare for us a precise rectangle of sky under which combine something decent.
for me, apart from two or three things that you know of my habit, I find a lot of indecency in the bottom of my eyes when I am thinking of you,
and eyes are beautiful like sulfur ; dry and then two candles, and I find myself talking to you, to answer questions that I've ever done and especially to repeat old words of love, because all the words of love are as old as the world itself before we become the world before we were given a rectangle of sky colorless.
late October is here, and aestella is the month of broken things: a dish of good memories of Rome is in four parts and has become for me a tangram irrosolvibile, the prince has lost a foot and its Babucci damask, The mill has a broken shovel, the white steeple tip chipped.
I too have problems with their feet, aestella.
small pinholes pierce my heels when I go to bed for a thousand steps from centipede that I make every day along the sides of the rectangle of the sky that more mature fruit.
last night I have sore feet followed from within the dream and my father was a kind of shoe that I showed a collection of shoes and I gave the air a couple lasting, good in black leather with heavy stitching, while stretched out his arm and told me
You really need new shoes
so I looked under my feet with needles and discovered that they were naked.
aestella, we are all barefoot in this outer space.
shoes all in debt to a father, a mother who please teach us how to stand up to a hundred years. say that the shoes are the first thing that takes off from our bodies when we die and do not the soul as we like to think, as it were from a canary too enthusiastically banging on the windows closed. confuses a rectangle of sky with the sky itself.
for me not to worry, I know how to throw behind the tricks, how long to wait for the sins and peccadilloes displayed modest, you know, as along the perimeter to distract the god dispensing limits.
my only chance, aestella, you go,
going and going
the heart of things,
in the heart of things.
is a hope to lifer, I know, but for now I have nothing to those feet that my very feet.

0 comments:

Post a Comment