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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