rusted_flower:
and through this?
rusted_flower:
old women sit with skin as soft as, as soft as what? time with feathers?
rusted_flower:
now and then from somewhere, I hear the computer singing, the camera winds its eye along valleys. the husks of cells?
rusted_flower:
beside gut lines, between fascia, a long lost route past magdalena's bed and the cold bath of susanna
rusted_flower:
I went in search of Piranesi's carceri, along canals of blood, through ovarian sacs and fallopian tubes
rusted_flower:
the light is grey but you can feel the colour underneath, still humming little tunes of love
rusted_flower:
from the window # 31
rusted_flower:
inside the window, that other space that moves you from one place to another in time not meant for the humans of centuries' history, yet Bohemian vineyards are not pearls around the neck but rows of sun in the day. light hours.
rusted_flower:
from my window # 31
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from my window # 32
rusted_flower:
through the window # 33
rusted_flower:
through some window # 35
rusted_flower:
from the window # 36
rusted_flower:
through the window # 37
rusted_flower:
from the window # 38
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from the window # 39
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from the window # 40
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ideas of niemeyer from a small room 2
rusted_flower:
my ex body-lover and current cyber lover has an inexhaustible geographical curiosity
rusted_flower:
on the edge of the Rhine one Sunday morning, a man heard cries from farther along the shore.
rusted_flower:
hurrying toward it, he lost his glasses so that he couldn't see it properly, but still he heard the voice.
rusted_flower:
he couldn't leave it there, so he dragged it home, heavy with some unknown weight, so that by the time he got there and drank a couple of beers, he fell into bed to a night full of dull beats and liquid movement through spaces.
rusted_flower:
he woke up to breathing and a rapid beating and going up close, he started to feel
rusted_flower:
as the sun went down, he caught a glimpse of another part.
rusted_flower:
and as the light went, she faded
rusted_flower:
with a different song and flapping of wings
rusted_flower:
another voice started
rusted_flower:
in the middle of the night,
rusted_flower:
the brittle sound of lobster claws, or some other shellfish, clicked in his head but this was not the meaning of her, he was sure.
rusted_flower:
but when he listened more carefully, he realized that all these sounds were the soft brushing of hair: long, long hair.
