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Friday, September 2, 2016

Poetry Collection Review, “Words from a Wanderer” by Alexandra Elle




Youtube Video- Words from a Wanderer by Alex Elle (Book Signing & Brunch): VLOG

Poetry Collection Review, “Words from a Wanderer” by Alexandra Elle


With Elle’s romance communication wet to the dry bone and cute summers rolled back in picture forms Elle looks from divided texts like a secretive business human in this collection’s self-preparation writs and hot a half-wild imagination suits her weathered tastes, I’ve dedicated myself in reading thus far, and a week ago I was bedazzled from her womanly claims that she must be pregnant when it happens and that all intentions are bad according to Elle.  On Amazon’s Unlimited Kindle App Elle’s black and white literature stands out applying shredded trees in a kind of saturated work of art, myself clicking away on my phone to go through note after note of Elle’s conditioned freedom, 2 ½ inch pages rolling near my phone face and beginning the stormy tales back to my enthused consciousness.  Freedom can’t exist without abstraction.  Words bright with the shining sights, Elle participates in her proclamations which can be mixed up with others’ and designate her shrouded character of daily quips, but Elle reels up with some horrific sensations instead of waiting quietly in the dust.  Elle pinpoints during modes of relaxation at past references and intrinsic emotions; she can smile faster than she can write even if it pains her at precious moments.  She closes her book and stands debating whether her elapsed history is a fork or a knife; she gets aroused on the idea of having plenty of children with a gross metaphor being “seeds,” even if her past experiences wash out one passion for another.  In fact, she’s a lady with lots of shades of so many colors: what happened in the past might startle her now.  Great numbers of passions in her falling mind keep her in imaginary company even if citizens don’t always abide to each other, making her doubt and refute those memes she inscribes, causing her to tank the long silent nights due to growing measures beside her bed teared up.  When I talk about tears, think of tears instead of tears so your dreams don’t wake up too ravishingly when there’s danger at the door and a believer begs elusive pardons; when Doctor Elle says things can get worse from here, I think her deniable hopes churns the butter soft and sweet since her fantasized days of love slumbers.  So by 2016 Autumn (an autumn after the millennium) on my tread of abstract literacy with a floating screen book over the fleshy digits as I handle it, Elle’s self-hospitality and cuddly notions invite her into more nosy affection to bring her spirit of mild despair toward guideful coming attractions of openness and comprehendible fatigue.  Elle’s statements of vague wisdom go along like soaring bubbles as each poem or note is fairly fixed with Elle’s varying tones of voice; I get picturesque hints, Elle’s flowing vibes kind of scrambling until there’s more than enough knots in her delightful input.  Or perhaps many boys loved her- after all, boys are chicks too.  I may talk about Elle’s disoriented worlds of thought as her ladled passions burn up inside her mind with the momentary silence of doom, but she combats against it with a cute fever and determines relationships as clean before and after the messes.  Elle moves closer to her passions to also get away from them as thirst bright creeps into my mouth sandwich behind wisdom teeth; I play with my mouth as a poet and ramble out her phrases “A Note2 Self- Dear Self” seeking psychological approval as much as I can imagine it.  I sense distress of glee in her context of meaning when informal proportions to her natural exaggerations quite inform me of Elle’s enthusiasm over healing.  Isn’t it significant that Elle puts one of Tolkien’s poems about the book’s front page, maybe aware that their talents aren’t in the easy reach of circles?  She listens to the most sensational dreams when horror possibly exists in them in bits; then, as if it’s her forte, there’s dominating regression on her part and she starts to downplay storms, pregnancies, and selective circumstances.  It’s not hard to create new ideas, but old ideas are sometimes pieces of cake which must constantly move around and fill up one’s senses.  Elle’s gender of baby making is like this box that a female must think outside of once in a blue moon; sex even mentions a redheaded heart asking about a lazy guy, exclusive motions from the buildings keeping passions at their thrills.  Poetry isn’t merely romantic; agony’s involved for numerous fish.  Elle grooves low and silent at many epic points until female communication reaches this roar of the positive millennium: years of regret have dripped into the bucket she kicks while being alive, so dim circles come around her sanity.  Obviously when there’s my feelings for her feelings philosophy becomes just gust one around poor barren shoes I own; the amen is already there, like a cat in a fair rather than a dog in a fight, and her passions have to mix up with her emotions so the lady can walk the plank and come out swimming.  As Elle talks around without visits to obvious notions of passion, the enticing attitude over her literary temple opens up to giant rooms of her engrossed imagination although “Words from a Wanderer” isn’t extreme in external concepts; that’s to explain she probably wonders so much about herself that she doesn’t always know who she is: there’s theories about mannerisms that are commonplace for a woman’s identity, so there’s more information in the book about emotions than about actions.  As a matter of fact, even her emotion info is based on generalizations instead of concrete problems.  The poetic author leans over my psyche with condensed orations; still, Tolkien’s poem about “crownless kings” complements Alexandra Elle’s small bit of visionary conversation about “stormy sunshine.”  The book doesn’t explicate the conundrums but shines upon them, Elle taking baby steps and adult strolls to illustrate encouraging romance over herself as a wild flower with seeds and popularity that’s at the tip of her tongue.

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