Al Quotion. The Part Of Improvisation (№ 177662)

Have you ever kissed poets? Vigibase along the Meridian of the stomach, already pregnant with new poems. Studying the trajectory of the hips, every touch igniting the inner sky, bursting out with a hoarse breath. You kissed poets? They have hot lips and cold eyes. They call at three in the morning to predict a new dawn. They are taught to love roads where easy haphazard happiness is a natural attribute, like a guitar on one shoulder and a careless half-smile songs by a bullet entering the living heart. They stagger from road-words not touching the ground, and are able to see people as birds. They go over the trenches that we dig its own to Fess up to the rhythm - home, work, school, Breakfast, dinner, boredom boundless and far-fetched meaning, not justifying myself. Just they are free even in prison, and we were in prison even free. Undefeated in the dungeons of a private dead-end lives, clumsily drawn on the inside of closed eyelids in a time when outside rages and life is rapidly falling star. They - the writers of the new world, they were the center of the cyclone. And they kiss. Know how? Sweeping away the husk of everyday life, collecting on his lips, the essence of being mad concentrate things, crossing out all unnecessary and exposing the most important thing. And life becomes a single moment, but in this moment all come to pass. So have you ever kissed poets? No? Well... Come on, kiss.