Friday, November 12, 2010

Milena Velba The Letter Picturs

Londoner


Hay for beer was more than seventeen years along the docks. Although shaken the hourglass, crushed box of Campbell's soup. It is believed that an eternity, all these days have rolled their bones as stones. Pop-art pop-rock, you go back and legs eph sheepskin in the last seventies vintage in green and orange flashy. It réendimanche flowers skeletal our ready-made. What foam has amassed at the edge of our beers? What velvety amber on the edge of the glass? London
smoke and screams. O what city bible saw Verlaine in other seventies machine to unwind the underground when he cribs with Rimba 34/35 Howland street, redoing the Commune in pubs in Leicester Square. The same révolvérisé later 178 Stamford Street with New Germain and his taste for strolling , his love for the streets, advertisements walls rouged color floods. The heart
crazy Robins onne through novels. That night ... you go to the dazzling cafes . O bible paper that wets in the vapors of malt, these imaginary lines of a constellation in the mist of time. O shock in our nights around London these new specters rolling through the thick coal smoke and eternal.

0 comments:

Post a Comment