Our Man in Europe, dave delacroix...THE NAKED CRUDE...Nudi no Crudi.

Our Man in Europe, dave Delacroix.... The Naked Crude....Nudi no Crudi...soundtrack, Faure-s requiem.


dedicato. Martina.








NO NAKED Crude, no Nudi di Crudi, this night, a kink in Love-s armour, a Sunset in-sight, THIS side of BOOGIE, where Angels fear to tread, an empty room, a vacuum, no note, nobody LOVED, to left...


THIS SIDE of the Angelic PENIS and TITS, the Gal U missed or the HORROR U hit somewhere over the WHASSIT in a Micro-SELFIE-genre that bewails your garnered Wisdom, butter-bread trails to tempt the next Lewis Carol-s Alicia, now a full blown HOT BABE sex-doll fantasy!
HUBBA-Man or HUBBA Gal! Pity the Hunter with Wolves on his trail!


Where are the Springs of Yester-day-year, AYE! Where R they! Coiled in the hologram of your Memory. Shrapnel. Like the KYPER belt. Orbiting.
Nobody-s left. Nobody-s Wisdom. History. A carpet of Souls, AGES reaching, to patch your Living-Whole, Nudi or Crudi.


Ring-a -ring-a Roses, a pocket full of poesies, Atishoo! Atishoo! We All fall down! Songs abound but Un-ravel like Insalata-Napoli!


NO NAKED Crude, my sweet. No Nudi e Crudi this night, a kink in Love-s armour, a Sunset In-sight, this side of Boogie where Angels fear to tread, an empty room, a vacuum, no note, nobody Loved, to left... or maybe, at last, to  right.
Like POMPEII graffiti. My kisses. The next exotic Moon, when we meet in our Naked Crude. Until then...under Versuvio.




c.2019. davedelacroix. Murphys Pub. Sciacca-Sicily.