Dryades

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Par Anna Coquelicot pour Bizarreries & Co

Publicités

30 réflexions sur “Dryades

  1. Mais qui se cache derrière ces dryades Anna ?
    est ce toi ? j’aurai bien vu un p’tit conte fantastique avec tes étranges photos impressionnantes …( je plaisante hein )
    Bravo en tout cas tu m’as bien surprise !!!

  2. Zoomanity
    DECEMBER 11, 2014 / DOUGSTUBER / EDIT
    Zoomanity

    Specks of cherry blossoms remain, six months after, crunched
    to microscopic, yet able to detect the soft November feet of
    knee-booted beauties. Washington’s engorged monument is
    Korean, six inches, but proud, laying-in to boot-skirt on the mall.
    Blushing blossoms accept the thumping as better than souls,
    more aesthetic than the spiked dens that welcome the kinky
    Dupont Circle crowd, you know, congressmen on the town with
    their page boys. We’re now “all -in,” bushwhacked into this
    winner-take-all culture with few winners, proud sinners, all-meat
    dinners. Unshaved Hispanics growl when the dealer hits two
    black jacks in a row. Cactus stand, not waving in the wind that
    tumbles weeds over mountains, that then ignite to torch homes
    of the “richies” who once had it made. Malibu, New Orleans,
    Florida in general: is there a pattern here? Gaia, perhaps our
    only god, has good aim, giving the haves ample opportunity to
    atone: few do. Perpetual human error peaks again now, as
    Christians preach morality, their U.S. leader tortures, slaughters,
    greedily spilling blood for oil, trading tomorrow for carbon-filled
    today, while children and nincompoops watch, jaws agape, because
    they didn’t see it coming. By nineteen-eighty-three it was evident,
    but still, twenty years into the fall, the one-two combo of religious
    propaganda and twisted “news” helped smooth over electoral fraud
    in time to put the slow crank on World War Three. Skip forward
    to November, back-peddle to the leaf pile, where larger color
    combinations lure Alexis and her playmate into unbridled bare-
    backed adventures. Cool air slows his sweat, but not before a drop
    jumps his nose. She thrusts to lick it out of the air, which is just
    the angle adjustment he needs to finish the act. Show this to the
    wonks, well-walled on cubicle row sixty-seven, and BASHA! your
    job is over. It’s that easy to escape the grind, but near impossible
    to be your own cowboy and feed the kids. This is when corporate
    can be your friend: just throw out all convictions, trade values
    for value-added do-dads that increase profits and productivity
    simultaneously and do not stress the details. No one minds if you
    are loading atomic weapons, making attack ads, fucking your
    “niece,” as long as the leaves rustle gently, lips quiver repeatedly,
    and voyeur neighbors get a hot glance, on an Indian Summers’ eve.

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