Now It addresses the Reader. All posts here are either sarcastic, silly or rather meaningless. Most mean the opposite of how they read, some are straight, figure them out yourself or even better, don't. I'm arrogant in a way but not in the way you probably imagine, so yes I'm not obnoxious like that, ha. Have a sense of humour, dislike me as I probably dislike you, and I might find you funny or weird and that's really a compliment. |

I am so poetic. I call violets violet and roses red. I see the blue in the sky and think 'azure', a lake is always silent and deep and looks like the colour of tears. Wildflowers are never weeds; a soldier is always wounded with sad eyes and a mistress has lips like coral and breasts like snow, she is Sophia Loren if "mature" and Hepburn (Audrey, never Katherine) if young, one uses adjectives like gamine, sylvan, and faun-like. Her awkwardness would be a reflection of youth, inexperience is definitely desirable, yes. Sex is not mentioned. With Sophia one can have sex, in fact it's imperative. Sex with chocolates, red wine from the valley 2 hours' drive away and dancing in the moonlight in a tavern in that vine-strewn valley the scented, soft, magical evening before the sex.
I'm so poetic it kills me, I cannot see the sea without sighing or the clouds without yearning. A meadow is never less than dewy, green and tinkling with buttercups (or cowbells), where the thorns go I don't know. Ah, and killing, death, it must be performed with an Italian stiletto, by a woman, titled, bosom under silk and satin, a body in flagrant disposition upon a sofa, or on a library floor -- wait, that's another kind of murder, read by old pussies and boys before bedtime. And the antipode of death, Life, it occupies, preoccupies me, must it not, it is angst and indigence of the soul and quivering with sharp, painful exquisiteness.
Pardon, a breather. And French is very poetic, non?
Poetry, wow, whee, shindig of the id and tada. |

Wowee, I'm a blogger slut, I prostitute my cerebrum for your festishistic pleashore. See my Area 17 (Brodman's Map, naturally), perceive that I find the full pink voluptuousness of a rosebud lip revoltingly sexy; hear this you, my Heschl's gyrus cochleared its way into a moaning giggle and cannot distinguish a low sound, a helicoma-tous noise; feel my 4 as I tickle, all very somatotopically (and shush, in wicked cahoots with 3, 1, 2) your body part, mind danglewaggle, I can discern hollows and promontories in the dark without for I sally in the 6-&-40. Sing! We the bodies electrik, I hold Guillain at bay, have him practise the Barre far. I am amateur, and I am master. |

It's stultifying like a Beatriceless Hades, but main Pros for this year are a distant, caffeine-drugged limbic-looped eternal alteration of my pyramidal, and perhaps stellate, cells, and my brow beams clear as the azuremost sky ever carved, swift scimitar-arabesque-esque, by a Shangrila lark. Passion whatnot making me pain for crafty Madonnas and sly Jesi, my eyeteeth-to-give-for gelato and walks under Tuscan, Roman, Venetian suns with wrinkled women tres chic, tres browned, so horridly bella and all. No cold cash, though, no Louvre even and no Mona Lisa and Mad Hatters. Watched "Almost Famous", so Kate Hudson may be just that little less irritating than thought but my girl you still can't act, you are not really that pretty and your mom's that much more interesting an actress, and nudist also, c'est la vie, forsooth and yea. |