Ah,” said Dolly, with soothing gravity, “it’s like the night...– Silas Marner (1861), George Eliot
…in daylight, you dare to dream of Congeniality, Repose, Union. Those...– by Charlotte Brontë, The Professor (1857).
For the inmates of Appleyard College, Sunday the fifteenth of February was a day...– by Joan Lindsay, Picnic at Hanging Rock (1967).
Strawberries cherries and an angel’s kiss in spring My summer wine is...– Summer Wine, Nancy Sinatra and Lee Hazlewood (1967)
Unless you consider it attentively, you will see nothing more than repetitions of reluctant attempts to solicit its senses. Is this a child shooting hoops, rewinding a tune with much excitement? Well, look at me, I’ve grown; my hair longer, step quickened, letters prolonged. Should I post a message once again that reads only a hello, and wait for a reply that reads only a hi; only that,...
Grow and send
When he’s tired I lose the world around me. Don’t talk, nobody talks to him. He won’t listen. Like a heavy ball of dough, he can’t separate his limbs from his torso, or move his neck; he has no spine. ‘Here you go, you‘ll feel better when you’ve rested.’ Won’t talk to you either, lacks the ability of human speech. When he’s tired I just need to wait for another full circle. I can’t stay here...
I got idea man You take me for a walk Under the sycamore trees The dark trees...– Sycamore Trees, David Lynch (lyrics), Angelo Badalamenti (music)
Illustriously built, the infamous brick wall, sacrum to collarbone, takes pride in what ensues / Escapes the fact that it’s been seen / Artfully now its fall commences, mortar and nails. / No foes, no oppositions. by Valeria Alevra
Like the beautiful bodies of those who died before they had aged, sadly shut...– Longings, by C.P Cavafy, from Poems (1897-1933).
As you set out on the way to Ithaca hope that the road is a long one, filled...– Ithaca, by C.P Cavafy, from Poems (1896-1933).
Not a wind blows and I have cried for storm! The night is still and sullen and...– In Calm, by Thomas MacDonagh (1878-1916).
Did the sun, which shone so brightly everywhere else, really fall upon him? Or...– Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804–1864). The Scarlet Letter. 1850. XV.
There is realization on the way;/ univocally so./ Advances, and stirs,/ and shifts matters./ Kindles extant exotic states./ Liberty’s luminous glow, late, but not unsought. by Valeria Alevra
nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn: CAMPING IN THE FOREST/HOLIDAY IN THE LAKE/AWAKENING BY THE COCKS/WIND BETWEEN DOLMENS/GUITARS ON THE LAWN OF THE PARK/THE SWALLOWS MAKE TWISTS AT GROUND LEVEL/SNAILS EMERGING AT SUNSET/BOATS SHAKES WITH THE SEA MOVEMENT/REQUEST A DESIRE TO A CROSSING STAR/MARIACHIS OR TUNEROS ‘SONATA/UNDRESS IN UNISON WITH OTHER 7000 PEOPLE MORE/COWBELLS CALVES/VEST PASTOR/THE...
butigaveyouall: linseed oil and sesame seed, honey and rose quartz, like paintbrushes with long handles and notes too high for the lines i tried your skin on.
It’s a frenzy, a frenzy/ What Gods’ favours and what human smiles are desired/ From dusk to dawn/ The load is a swirl. by Valeria Alevra
fourtain asked: Oh my goodness, your writing is so carefully thoughtful and well written.
boeotian-deactivated20110202 asked: you really are remarkably talented.
If you wait too long
The stiffest body, / this swirling energy./ The stiffest body,/ the coldest waters I swallow,/ once cool, promising revival./ The stiffest body awaits, and gives up/ no more than a few sleepless nights;/ for its hardened shell, slowly was built on unresponsiveness,/ and seems not different to apathy. by Valeria Alevra
A greatness whilst I don’t look./ Nothing to do with ineptitude./ In between, flatness lays./ How pitiful our misconceptions make us to the eyes of greater powers. by Valeria Alevra
Oh, and when the sun hits his face, when the warmth of life touches his skin, how jealous I am of the liberty the sun is taking, of this boy’s affirmation. by Valeria Alevra
That palpable colour of golden, so definite, shines. Emotionally and otherwise, ensures felicity simply; false-seeming conclusion of any matter, in merriment. by Valeria Alevra
Don't know where it hides
Lies, cover the truth like jam,/ nicely goes down./ Never think of it again/ until your stomach aches/ until water alone can not wash off/ the numbness on your palms./ Stay there/ and close your eyes/ it might go away, but it won’t./ Stand there/ and run in your head, grow a bit weak/ a bit more./ Be late and feed it, it grows bigger/ and salutes you, under your feet./ When the whiteness...
mrcatface: It seems to me It seems to me that when I should Is what I should have done Quicker than is fair for me To reach a decision. It seems to me that certain fruits Like apples, grapes and pears Are only good for looking at When they start growing hairs. It seems to me that rather than Explaining what went wrong We should admire the pretty shape The thing has now become. It seems to me...
Dedication bounces on no surface, while feet rest on carpeted floors;/ the distance covered not measured, due to unverified indifference and awkward gestures;/ misininformation it likes to be called while bare palms face your way. by Valeria Alevra
boeotian-deactivated20110202 asked: your writing is very beautiful, it has a curious immediacy to it and i can't even word what it stirs in me. thankyou awfully for the follow, i look forward to reading and seeing what more wonderful pieces you create! <3
Truth will settle on me/ like the morning frost of a still day and/ My days will be long, full of/ apples and roses, eggs at a quarter to nine. by Valeria Alevra
Today, Monday; tomorrow the same.
Woke up; coffee, cigarette, unmade bed, clean hair, returned of time and the city, smiled hoping the weight will fly out through my mouth. Still thinking about wooden floors, wide windows, Gillespie, and that ficus. I prefer white walls.