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Vintage

Every woman should be beautiful vintage photos =))) Here I am spodvigli.
Although, of course, suggest a diet = (((









photographer A. Sherstyuk

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Schibbolet

Schibbolet

Together with my stones,

fed

crying behind bars,

dragged me to the center of the market, where

explains that the flag

I lent oath.

Flute

doppioflauto of the night thinking dark

twin glowing

in Vienna and Madrid.

Put your flag at half mast,

memory. A half-mast

for today and forever.

Heart:

made known here,

qui, al centro del mercato.

Gridalo, lo Schibboleth

nella patria estraniata:

Febbraio. No pasaran.

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Ozymandias

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: two was an trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, and the sand
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whoe frowin
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless thugs,
the and that marked them and the heart that fed
And on my pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings
Look at my works, ye Migthy, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of
That colossal wreck, bondless
and bare The lone and level sand stretch far away

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The poet asks his love to write music

Love of my body, living death,

look in vain for your written words

and I think, with the flower withers

that if I live without me want to lose

The wind is immortal. The inert stone

knows no shadow nor life.

inner heart does not need

honey ice cream that light versa.

But I endured. I cut my veins,

tiger and dove on my sewing

in a duel of bites and lilies.

Quiet, therefore, with words, my madness

or let me live in my serene

dark night of the soul for ever

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often the music takes me away like the sea. Under

once in a mist or vast ether

sail I put my pale star.

Swollen lungs and chest forward as sailing

Furrow crossed the crest of the waves

That night I hide;

vibrate in me I feel all the passions of a

vessel that pain, the mighty wind,

the storm and its convulsive movements

immense chasm rocks me

Other valves, flat calm,

large mirror of my despair (*)


Sidenotes
(*) As in "De profundis exclaims, "here is the attribution of a sense of mind to an atmospheric phenomenon. In this case the "calm" there is despair. In the other poem cited above, such a thing was attributed to an entire landscape is more or less the Arctic, although one of "chaos" was more an abstraction of a landscape rather than something real and tangible. Indeed, the desperation is a tangible feeling, while Chaos is still a conceptualization.

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Maria

Mary

with your blonde mantilla

ass down and melancholy.

I own the pink

the dark rectangle of your sinus

What time?

Night is too short.

Yes

Oh, Mary

ass down and melancholy!

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undo, undid, undead

VCR, stop time, the transmission. Vast collections of video tapes with footage of Iranian cinema not subtitled and the improbable Enrico Ghezzi out of sync with the lip began to fill the shelves of libraries. An inert mass of memory, and demagnetization ever magazine because there is always something to see. Alla fine ho cominciato a tenere la televisione accesa quando non c'era niente da dire, per riempire un vuoto. And I started to look like a crack across from some of my personal history and my generation, "to see the effect it does."
Keep your distance, I would say a "proper distance", which then what is not never . But I try a correction continues like looking through a zoom. In order not to fall into the story and lost promise. I know that resets the time , if you're not careful. Also because the monitor I pass the days, like many, working on my graphics. Which, although at the beginning seemed a miracle, is not much different from watching TV, just seems more active and then you eat the eyes. See Internet, the library of Babel. And then I think that movement that now allows us operating to go back to the computer, which allows us to reset the time spent at work. The command to the machine is " undo ": "not to do so," after having done so. Those who know him know that you do so, "Control Zeta (zeta apple, so to speak, for those who use the Mac). It allows you to do one or more steps back into the project, and in some applications to return to the origin, erasing the history the path fact, the ' errore commesso. Azzera il tempo nello stesso modo della televisione, affascina, ed è una maledetta scorciatoia, soprattutto per chi non sa dove vuole arrivare . Cancella l' esperienza , che è fatta di errori irreversibili . Nella realtà infatti mi risulta non si torni indietro, anzi si paga, e caro. E questo è un grande valore: il percorso del tempo, la storia, individuale and social development. why I can not talk about things other than through experience and through , I now know to be an increasingly shared. And this makes me a little more secure, even if the times seem dark, more than usual. The war has begun? Let's watch a viewfinder. Why we're the "new heroes" media. It is we who, people consuming the media, communicating, layout, write on it, we promote them and make them live by making, such heroically. Why do we do? Why can not distinguish, differentiate the undifferentiated? learn how to choose? Everyone can groped his reply, looking at his life. And wrong. No technological knowledge can give us an answer, not above, to reset the time limit. Our schools of design and communication, private or university, made to seem a new skilled workers. For those like us, "objectives - indeed - sensitive", there is a damned system error, evidently. Perhaps "the application has unexpectedly quit and any unsaved data will be lost." Please reboot.

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The balcony

O Mother of memories, mistress of mistresses, O thou that combines

all my pleasures, all my duties,

remember the beauty of caresses, the sweetness of the hearth and the Magic

nights, Mother of memories, mistress of mistresses?

The evenings lit by the embers and evenings on the balcony

veiled vapor rose. As your breast that was sweet

your heart brother! We often planted

immortal words, the evenings lit by the embers.

How beautiful are the only ones in the warm evenings, as space is

deep, the mighty heart! Bent over you, queen of all the

worship, I thought I breathe the fragrance of your

blood. How beautiful the light is on sultry evenings!

The night thickens like a wall, my eyes guessed

the dark your eyes and drank your breath,

or sweet, my poison, but your foot fell asleep in my hands fraternal

. The night thickens like a wall.

know how to summon up happiest moments: as I saw the

my past, crouched between your knees. Why try

your languid beauty out of your body or your

heart so weak? I know how to summon up happiest moments.

Oaths, perfumes, kisses endlessly chased by a pit

interdict our probes as well as go back to heaven only

, energized, having left in the deep seas

, or oaths, perfumes, kisses without end !

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On my wall hangs a Japanese woodcut.

The mask of a demon villain, painted with gold wool. Full

of compassion I see the swollen veins

front, a sign of what has

hard to be bad.