Art, don’t you love it, the way it weaves you in and out…
Standing under my broken umbrella in the rain…
We all make art; we make it as we live; we are art…
A wave under the sea was doing a poem…
Been listening to Rumi a lot lately
He was full of poems
Don't know if he could cook though
Not that it matters
Maybe he was a chef of another kind.
Image by Clker-Free-Vector-Images from Pixabay
The next level was calling me with plates in her hair and eyes as big as mushrooms and purring: this is a strange poem, isn’t it?
I was entranced and trying to hold my breath up with my wands, breathing, and mooning in the marooning with the robotic side of me becoming confused and asking to be plugged in again, and, maybe I’ll goon now…
The next edge becoming perfect under the moon was groaning about all the inner work to be done these days where there are no saviours but me and my god and what I make of it.
Love-hearts she showed me. Well, I tell you, I’m partial to a bit of amour. So I blew kisses back at her that said: don’t panic, love is close by.
A few love-hearts later as the cock crowed she said goodbye, and left me where I’d begun ages earlier mooning for the moon, and wondering if I’d ever get out of it all sane where I was weaving under the moon all that I was and plumbing all the depths I could reach and wondering: was I the fool to be expected around midnight when the moon is full?
Image by Mona El Falaky from Pixabay
There was a reason I loved that song, it was a somethingness that touched my soul and grew algorithms all over the place, which made me very pleased and shuddering at the shoulder and holding out my life in sympathy for it until I couldn’t say no.
And then my birthday arrived and made me famous all day long.
Image by john peter from Pixabay
The internet is as small as a pea most of the time, and quivering in and out of reality. And so ladies and gentlemen I give you the unredacted version of this idea to peer over for the measly sum of whatever you can afford, and if not, then I hope you get better soon.
Image by Enrique Meseguer from Pixabay
Some moments come, and hardly arriving they go again, and are gone.
Image by Noupload from Pixabay
Standing under this broken umbrella in the rain, I wove my art and became the waveless poem weaving under the moon.
Image by cocoparisienne from Pixabay
Images from Pixabay
