London Fruit And Herb Tea Canada

not to the elevator. The small world

" The trailer "

Marius Casar

Clovis and his guitar just slam the door of the apartment of the thirteenth floor. Hers. Her companion gypsy offered in the back une grande bouche qui lui souffle une vie sur la corne de ses doigts. La seule. Elle lui tient son show comme un blouson, un cuir. Ça mégit ses jours et lui cire ses nuits. Clovis ne sort jamais sauf quand Marcos l’appelle. Ce soir, il a appelé.  Répétition.

Quinze pas jusqu’à l’ascenseur.

Franchir d’abord ce long couloir à la peau verte et sale où comme sur un essuie main se torchent des raclures  de  misère, des graffitis de chairs,  des hiéroglyphes d’âmes aux vomissures haineuses, des traces de bottes noires foulant des guirlandes de barbelés where sketched behind words pierce a viewpoint.

Clovis feels sour and it terrorizes. His body becomes frightened, he keeps it warm and it spreads like lava bubbling on the strings of his guitar when he feels game. The smell penetrates well beyond the dermis.

Fifteen not to the elevator.

sweats. Clovis fear. This long vaginal tears which crawl like a gypsy people landless him each time losing key floor. It's not the smell. Browse this tunnel to acid mucosal him petrified legs. Frozen in front of his door, Clovis at the bottom of the chamber believes there see the black eyes that he threw sharpened notes on looks of hatred. That he stirs the anguish in the depths of his fathers.

Fifteen steps to the elevator.

Clovis fear. Marcos and Django ahead. It should. A step. Choper pump up the tempo, one that will suck in the elevator outside her makeshift scaffold avoiding a Miles. A few yards more, effort. At every step, be it Latcho drom until the elevator button. Fifteen ...

Fifteen steps to the elevator.

And then suddenly like an angel on his back, his partner is doing gypsy albatross stretches its great wings and gently pushed. The mouth of the lift trailer home while improvising Clovis swinging like a gypsy on a new cloud, a great cloud.