Severin Marina

“Open up to the leisure world of distinctive types. That’s how I feel, the place I’m going seems so full of exciting characters. Scandalous magazines and oceanic nights soothed by the plurality of the meantime, I’m free and I can’t feel nothing but the strange weather. After the bright victory and the bitter surf of futurist ambivalence, I’ve got a handle of the tide. At least for now, but I don’t have to consider anything but ‘now’, for now anyway. Beat-beat-beat-la-la-La. Surfing on the wavering vividness of voodoo space and gypsy time, take me higher to that place in the city lights where the silhouetted fingers of tree adorn the strip of concrete pavement with a starry look. By the means of a venerated banner that crinkles prettily in that special song of sunlight and the performance of Warhol people. Fame-fifteen minutes-trash magic-agony fiend no more. Even when the stage doesn’t work in rarity, it works in the sparkling hope of fantastic silk in the shadow of a radio show’s talk. Through the frenzies of several cold radiances that flash before me, I have finally decided on one, not settled but decided. An abundance of road days could bank me to the Rhine, Rhone or the Rheidol, I’ll stay and shake with pleasure. Churning, burning a definite plop of the blue dahlia. Go-come-leave-stay, you don’t have a sign”