It was written Dolores on gold around her neck. The child was called Lolita, just for the pleasure of colorful and musical vowels. Babies play with sounds and sing best with vowels. Later, at home, she shall be named Lola, and will not answer immediately, taking the time to feel the liquids of her name overflowing somewhere, unknown river of calling that spirals minutely in her idea of a closed, dense, rose. Petals of flesh, pressed, roundly, inside, in tension towards the mouth of other sun. I do not ruminate my secrets, I sing roses.
She came to believe insistently that Dolores, much sorrow, is the woman, aboriginal, ground down, and overflowing essentially. The only why is a confusion of pain and ecstasy. A woman is an uncertain wound, it opens at dawn and sings.
If you touch per chance the possible rage of non-sense over her moonlight, you'd better plunge softly into the fresh body of any abandoned cries by seagulls. There is smoke on the sea-shore. She floats along drinking the trembling emotions of faces regaining the wide wind. We have bodies to float and merge. I love clouds when naked. Possible gestures flash on board against silence. A nude emerges and blinds my chain of fresh vowels.
Love you is not the Wave where the fire may start up again
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She came to believe insistently that Dolores, much sorrow, is the woman, aboriginal, ground down, and overflowing essentially. The only why is a confusion of pain and ecstasy. A woman is an uncertain wound, it opens at dawn and sings.
If you touch per chance the possible rage of non-sense over her moonlight, you'd better plunge softly into the fresh body of any abandoned cries by seagulls. There is smoke on the sea-shore. She floats along drinking the trembling emotions of faces regaining the wide wind. We have bodies to float and merge. I love clouds when naked. Possible gestures flash on board against silence. A nude emerges and blinds my chain of fresh vowels.
Love you is not the Wave where the fire may start up again
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