Friday, September 25, 2009

Names For A Pet Platypus

dire predictions without realizing that we were falling into an abyss



you been up to me
and we fell
why do not we
made to fly.

You believed in me
you come back and defeated
because they are not able
to keep a promise.

I waited for you
but was too vain hope
and my hands tied too.

We made love
but we were prisoners of our bodies
because we do not know
still free.

jurors We kiss, falling,
until we hit the ground
without realizing that we were
falling into an abyss.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Good Sanitary Wares Brand







Sunday, September 6, 2009

Spotting After Period And Itchiness

"Come to the World"




Today, at lunch, I watched the news and learned that the book I had finished reading two minutes before he won the Campiello Prize 2009.
There was no story, "Come to the world" by Margaret Mazzantini delves into how few books are able to do.
Against the background of Sarajevo under siege, two young Italians are desperate to have a baby by artificial means. It 's a series of plot twists, that deep in my heart already knew. Nothing really new, but for us that we have never experienced a war, is a unknown world, surreal, made of blood and courage. A world that we find it hard to imagine.
E 'a hymn to life, singing in the dust of war and hatred that pushes people to fight against their own kind for a while' bread and wood.
What stands out most is the will of the protagonist, Gemma, to go forward, to give a future to the future because "hope belongs to the children. We adults we have hoped and we lost."
A novel of strong ethical commitment that many have not failed to criticize idiotic and offensive comments, decontextualized metaphors from the chaos of a war to throw them in bulk in the commotion of a blog.
I still wonder, guys, how many people do not understand the beauty of art when it's half the pain.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Printed Volleyballs Shorts

BloodArt




Baudelaire or Bukowski?
God, I do not know who to choose.
Give me a knife and paint
life
give me a rose
and paint the beauty.
I want to sleep but I look at my scrap
my skin is pale
blood on the shirt
and in my eyes.
The color of the iris can not be changed
and even what the retina receives.
The flower color is the result of additions
and the result is what counts.
dream at night
printed pages and words are the product of the day.
weep hot tears burn
torn tissues.
Baudelaire or Bukowski?
The letter B is beautiful.
Today I crossed the corner of Death
and once again I bowed
and ran away.