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Corners Visitor

vídeo Watch the video


Flour, milk, water ... I know the color cookbook.
What I am seeking is not written:
pregnancy life
in the womb of iron pans.
My thoughts gather flowers in mosaic
the living part that is gushing from the ground a current story
written by fire.

Always the same and different,
fire shines and attracts me,
trempre bird dancing on my stove,
to free themselves red in vertical languages.

My stomach invade these spaces of desire
between the vessels and the flames
where the gods dwell and prepare food and dreams.
Every day my teeth share with them
nuts and bread.


The black moon crawls the room asleep.
Against the dark crevice in which I left yesterday.
Guess what was not looking: chance is part of me.

Sleepless prepare the feast of the coming day. In the bed,
Mix the honey in the morning the scent of violets
and gather a picture
the hair from the sun rubbing shoulders in the world.


Follow my eyes and thoughts
little swans gliding by the green wall.
Contemplate the tranquility of swimming is immersed in me
rivers pack my memory
the procession of water birds and tile
while licking my skin transient streams.

The body assumes no sweat fatigue.
In the bath, a little of us will.


Whiteness in the towel the night stages the table set
crockery and Eve shines in meeting family obligations.

I wish more; want what lurks
in memory and in tact the cutlery
when they sense the touch of your fingers and mouth.
On common desire to party.

Guest sitting at the bedside,
hands clasped, I know,
believe me the feeling and the origin of things:
incense from India, China poppies,
mint from my yard, steps from now
under glass tiles dotting the sky
light tonight.

Along the visitor, I cling to the senses
of living things. In our hands
The cup looks like the lips and mint.


Before night the flower of the land, the basement falls asleep
in the bed of another time it jams in old things.
In this place a few things I speak, but all of them
are past that my envision.

The staircase invites me to asceticism. Lamp lit
sweet tentacles down the garden transparencies
crossing the virtual life and beautiful roses stained glass.
Red in corollas
the impetus of life pours into the room
and ignores the senses Eve.

Under the floor, nothing is lost or reunion.
In the solitude of objects dust tinge of gray
pain useless.


The look of the crystal in my eyes in the darkness review
The double
no more illusory.
My thoughts glide by night elusive
but ambiguous within the body and reflex
in the mirror,
light can not move
the route of hardened water.

Within the waters, breathtaking image is ingrained
cutouts in the past.
By tracking what was surprised me
sharp eyes of crystal
decant the pitch in the land
intangible things
image and look.


Passavem birds in flocks,
I still recall the.
Sudden night birds, daydreams Visitor ...
Reminder that hurts.
Reminder that animates.

2005-10-25 19:40:34 by wrknoutalot


My mother collects miniatures;
tiny tea sets,
complete with cups
and saucers smaller than finger nails,
pocket-sized apples, pears and bananas
made of crystal or colored glass
with a wicker basket to hold them,
entire model neighborhoods,
hand painted houses,
a post office, and general store-
all lined up on book shelves
with old fashioned street lamps
beside porcelain people,
ice-skating, each with one foot in mid-air.
She spends hours rearranging;
moving cups around on their tray
switching the white house
for the light blue one
with the navy shutters,
wiping every crevice
of her little world
with a dust cloth,
then replacing each piece
just so along the shelf

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Our How-to Guide on Vintage & Consignment Shopping  — Providence Media
Perusing through, one room contains fashion accessories, jewelry, men's clothing, china, artwork and instruments; another is brimming with fabrics and curtains, lamps, pottery and things for the kitchen.

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