I cannot read Italian?  Yet, in tea and in food?  We are asked to describe a flavor profile.  Does it taste of the elements of wood, cypress, vanilla or rose?  We fall into a foolish lake of synesthesia.  Why can’t I smell a book or a person and give my  perception.  I am a book sniffer?  I am a hound dog of fine words.  I investigate the soul and where its armor has it’s succinct beauty and flaws.

When I listen, on a lovely night to Englebert Humperdinck!  The music of my parents.

I begin to think of Luisa Ruggio?   Perhaps there is  a ghost nearby missing life?  Missing precious drops of sunlight like honey white, calling me…. As I am sipping strange wine?  It is August and this month all over the Far East, we believe the moon has cracked open upon the earth.  It’s lunar secrets say goodbye to summer and unleash the dancing souls form all the realms of the beyond this life dwell.

So?  I have no idea why but at first i say how can it be that I hear music notes very plump, rich and buttery just falling free like colors and flavors and my heart thinks of saxophones.  Do we wonder if there really are psychics or where perhaps do the music notes go after their songs are played?  Then I look up the story of Engelbert and he played saxophone !  Long before  he became the English icon whom song sexy romantic Italian and Spanish songs.  All I can say is that Luisa Dentro came to my mind and I believe her once  upon a time lover was calling her through me from some sad and divine realm. She knows , it had to be you. Here, i have sniffed is a wonderful story for those whose hearts are drenched in wine and say ” I could drink a case of you” As Joni Mitchell once upon a time sung.

Drinking wine. The letter with the smooching red chocolate foil dress upon.  Curved like chocolate kisses, into a Pompidou curled wisp.  That is the Spanish Princess in the flamenco dress.  She turns and all the roses swirl. The heart is jumping, landing upon a mesh net made of hydroponic blue electric comets of light, all intertwined. as gracefully as maidens in a synchronized water ballet.

There he goes, it is music of my mother, Mr Englebert Humperdinck. He is  sewing a hypnotic scarf, of thick embroidered Mayflower’s in a Madras silken fuchsia, all in the background of my mind. Somewhere beamed inward from the orchestral vortex of the 1970’s.   The embroidered blossoms are boisterous. in the heaviness of their perfume. As if they had already climbed the Himalaya’s into its majestic cloak of paranormal skies.  Sublime, are the  soft hues of multicolored perfumed rains.  A galloping fox trot of weeping golden daffodils, sunflowers, orchids, green calyx spears of intoxicating perfume.   I wear my mothers beautiful scarf from Madras, of romantic songs by Englebert Humperdinck forever.

The lady in red is Luisa, lover and conductor of the symphony of poems which draw its readers into a boisterous but fine symphony of filigree and elemental and mirages, simply too  dizzying with  ultra violet  fire and tangerine succulent  heat.

If wine were a lady?

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