Flowery Prose

Sure heats up the deep frying pagan in me. My Phoebus has sent me an earthly orgy of icons to contemplate

I’m at home in St. Savinien sur Charente never far from the Angelus bells of the eponymous eglise. Oooh – I do love a bit of the old Eponomy. I think there might be a publishing platform of the same name. They often invite me to do things. I’m not sure what and I’ve never gotten round to doing it. 

It’s like a landscape painting at every moment of the river

I’m just putting up a few pictures of my beautiful town. The air is heavy with the perfume of flowers. The swallows swoop and swerve back and forth along the surface of the flowing emerald Charente river. After a shower the air is warm and saturated with that deep lust of kisses, wine, fertile musk of passion and the warm plop plop spatter of cow dung. It’s a damask bath of purple prose sprinkled with succulent seed laden fruit and wasps. You know – one day I’m gonna stick all this stuff in a saucy novel and send it to Eponomy. 

Alleys of the world – ALLEZ!

Even a stroll to the local boulangerie takes me along an alley like many others. It is all so close to paradise that I get that urge to try out some original sin. The closest I’ve got so far is nibbling the newly baked bread before I get it home although once I scoffed two of the pains au chocolat. I told the family they’d only had two left. Well, they did when I’d subtracted two. 

Emma Thinx: To flower is mortality. To bloom is mentality.










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