Bring me back that horizon. Its Grand Ark. The Blues. An electro retard permute minutes. Not to blow the relief but to darn that dream.
There shall be slides on a tobogan amongst paper tiger & clay dragon. One hundred and forty four hours of winter. Buffalo furs and prayer flags. A radar insistor, secret shrines. A load of grassland with police and thieves. Poised by the new pollution of shop alcoholics I shuffled into a dump in the wild. I fled a town of legend.
(the) Little Mountain plus the book with spies & hues. My permanent vacation. A lake to rest, a lake with lost men in their thirties who play football where plastic bottles are goals.
The stroll on the wondrous path above. The rendez-vous below the tree. The italian in me.
The place’s name’s like a painter. There’s Supersquare at Kafka. Vegetal insects. Words & flesh. Lies, bubbles & scapes. While It’s moving you, aloud, at the pace of a cloud, dead men don’t tell tales.
