rOmAnCe
Thierry Brunet

     

          Sobbing with the Sheik in the chill gloom of the crypt, with the scent of imported lemons and cappuccino wafting in from outside, V. even lovelier - if possible - in her grief, thought once more of the French triangle player, the lizard-booted wanderer in her recurring dream. He was now, according to the letter on the catafalque, in the clutches of One-Eyed G. and his gang of cutthroats. Then a sordid crime…

 

The suspicious machine has no feelings, it feels no fear and no thirst, she doesn't even know the taste of chocolate bonbons ! it operates according to the pure logic without intuition. For this reason I can trust her when it comes to       rOmAnCe

 

          Sobbing alone in the great, cherry wooded toilet, with the rhythmic strumming of imported guitars wafting in from outside, the wholly heartbroken V. thought once more of the stylish       French triangle virtuoso, the lizard-booted impersonator who had taught her how to feel. He was now, according to mute pilgrims, drinking himself to death in the company of the Amadeus tribe.

 

rOmAnCe    the catatonia of my wet dreams

my heart struck me dumb

"Dope danger and dolls !"

 

          Sobbing in front of One-Eyed G., remembering its bloody history, with the aroma of imported lemons wafting in from outside, V. - she who had always been too innocent to be shy - thought once more of the French triangle seller, the loving lizard-booted sniper she had turned so thoughtlessly away. He was now, according to her horoscope, dancing away Stadium nights with the stylish Sheik.

 

strictly speaking, every citizen below a certain level of reading is suspected of some disturbing effects

 

          Sobbing in the fortress where One-Eyed G. had witnessed her apparition, with the far-off glamour of the imported bangles wafting in from outside, V. the frightened girl thought once more of the French triangle welder,     the sensitive genius who had known her in ways even she did not suspect. He was now, according to the letter on the catapult, a prisoner in the very castle he had once own.

 

here in the orange cube sobbing alone with a glass of barley water

I feel secure with my new volumes

the walls are tagged with epithets and when the braces became birds of prey I close my eyes thinking of the naughty Sheik

 

          Sobbing alone in the gleaming, antiseptic closet, with the shouts of the street imported from outside, V. thought once more of the French swindler, the masterful mentor who had transformed her from a mere girl into a real woman. He was now, according to the letter on the catafalque, the captive of mind-devouring aliens near Stadium.

 

industrialization was the last cantata of my starving race

now I have  rOmAnCe  the comprehensive software

all that remains is the mad desire for flesh

then like a sordid crime my loathing for speech

LOcKjAw said that with rOmAnCe 2.0 I'm going to be stuffed with passion like no billionaire could possibly dream

do you care for bonbons ?

 

wHy cAn'T I pUt My oWn LiFE iNto wORdS ?

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