This lovely woman is Dasha.
Sometimes I write her poems or print pictures of her while having ideas for an autobiography.
Dasha isn't only a cutie beauty...
Dasha sometimes kills me with an hammer and nails while I'm observing whales...
I don't know what to do when Dasha tells me this:
- Hey man, I'll need a hand to do a tour in a life caroussel...
I observe myself as being in a sort of spell by a bell(e).
Dasha continues to tell me this:
- Hey man, I'll be your guide in this surreal tide...
I stare at the horses and without pennys on my pocket, I search for pen and paper.
Dasha screams to me:
- WHAT ARE YOU DOING, MAN?
- DO YOU THINK THAT YOU CAN PAY FOR A RIDE WITH WRITINGS FROM A PEN?
- JUST BE A GENTLEMAN...
I search on another pocket for some paper money...
I know that I used to have extra 80€ somewhere in my bag...
I count it while I'm in a run with Dasha for fun...
There's hot everywhere and I ask in a coffeeshop for ice-cream inside a dream...
Dasha tells me that she screams with ice while she's nice...
I think that at this time, I've more pennys on my bag and without thinking too much, I know that Dasha is a sweet where candies meet...
Dasha's not a normal girl, she's a cutie woman by the wall...
She says this to me:
- I'm without wire but I love your fire...
She puts an analog tape of Bauhaus music band for me to listen to and suddenly groovy words appear on my mind as swords...
Dasha continues saying this to me:
- I'm alone with a phone...
- Can you fix the numbers of it and I'll make you something to eat?
I really don't know where I stand when Dasha tells me to wash the dishes near a river with fishes....
She shouts at me:
- HEY MAN, WHERE'S YOUR PEN?
Dasha continues to joke about gore at some shore and I really don't know what to do more.
Her hair is black as raven wings are when into the night you catch a sudden fright...
Dasha's not toxic...
Dasha's a planet...
Dasha's a room with no net...
Dasha's a beauty when she says the word: Cutie...
Dasha's a piece of paper and a stencil light that burns bright...
Dasha's a black dress that isn't a mess...
Dasha truly knows how to play chess...
Dasha's sits on a chair where there used to be a bear...
Dasha's red lipstick when she notice a game without a joystick...
Dasha yells at me for free:
- YOU'RE A VAMPIRE WITHOUT WIRE...
I don't know what to say to her when communication is out of order and we can't reach any further...
Dasha becomes to feel blue for true when she tells me about a fox (or what is an ox?) that was passing in some woods near a fall and it was real tall...
Dasha told me about a story in a day of glory:
- Hey?
- Do you wanna know something funny?
- There's lots of people that call me honey...
She was Dasha then and I was smaller than a simple old man...
I thought this towards myself:
- Intoxica is a name with no game...
- Can we both play by the floor while somebody's banging at the door?
Without my sunglasses, I really don't know what's new when sounds crash in my brain without pain...
Without pen or pencil, I write another short poem to sweet Dasha while asking her a simple question:
- Hey girl, what's new?
She doesn't answer me because she's under a tree for free...
Searching for fact, I know that she always react...
Doves are telling me about ancient soldiers dreams without screams...
Dasha starts to talk with me:
- I'm Freddy Krueger's doll when music is a state of mind real kind...
- I don't search for Judy or Philip Jeffries, because I know that Peaks leakes...
Out of a sudden words pop in and out of my brain with disdain:
- Scissors...
- Come on down I want to see you shiver...
Dasha's loose on the street where you and me meet...
I know that I'm scared of a bat that flies high and I'm without a simple sigh...
Dasha asks me this in another language with a bliss:
- Es tu dans une chanson?
- Es tu dans une maison?
- Es tu a écrire sans lire?
- Est-ce que tu sais que je suis la dame de canton?
I start to be some sort of freak with a sudden grip on a trip and answer her this in another language:
- Yo soy una mescla de cancion con ilusion...
- Yo me quedo en una casa sin asa...
- Yo no se leer, solo se escribir mismo cuando mi verbo es partir...
Bats as small as rats start to fly in circles along my physical figure where a sight appears in the light at night.
They say this to me:
- Take left...
- Take right...
- Enjoy a flight...
- Wander in the night...
Without me knowing where I want to be, I start to listen to Dasha talking with me in another language and I'm lost in babel within a spell.
Dasha tells me this:
- És uma simples estória...
- És uma simples memória...
- És uma recordação...
- És uma ilusão...
- És um beijo francês junto ao Gerês...
- És um espelho partido num tempo ido...
- És um qualquer sonho nada medonho...
- És um ser com poder dentro do teu lazer ou prazer...
I start to mirror the hour at my wrist watch while thinking this towards myself:
- Dasha's right because I know for sure that she always provides me with light and insight...
A simple short poem to Dasha without pen or pencil.
They say that she's intoxica in a day of may...
They say that toxic is only a word in which we lay...
They say that she's a guitar player that doesn't need a layer...
They say that she's Russian, European, American and Asiatic while she's static...
They say that she dwells inside herself with a rhyme where time chime...
They say that she's Audrey for fun when she's on the run...
They say that she's Horne in a movie (or was it a motion picture?), when she's groovy...
They say that her voice is a choice when time comes while she's drifting in hot wheels without noticing her own feels...
They say that she thrives in a musical genre inside a swamp that's no dump...
They say aloha to her while her water bottle is filled without glass but with class...
They say that she observes green grass and tunnels while shuting her eyes with no lies...
They say that she shouts at lions without a simple scare because she's a wolf among sheep, even when the sea is too deep...
They say that she transforms herself at night as a werewolf by sight...
They say that her pictures are framed in a window church when she prays for her soul among the old...
They say that her clothes are dead deep down inside her head...
They say that her eyes are blue and green when she searches for their simple spin...
They say that she doesn't wear a watch nor earrings when she searches for whatever the time brings...
- "THEY SAY"
She shouts to me...
- "People say"
She whispers to me...
And without me noticing it, I'm printing her pictures by her side for fun and leisure while writing curious narratives with images on our minds as pleasure...
The picture above is a really good and simple picture of sweet Dasha "parce que son visage est toujours dans une nuage..."
To be continued in posts at this same blogue with help by sweet Dasha that while haunting my heart or mind, she gives shivers to my body that are real kind.
To be continued in posts at this same blogue with help by sweet Dasha that while haunting my heart or mind, she gives shivers to my body that are real kind.
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