There is no jugular

How to scratch child ears
in my university at midnight you are like a lemon and your form and colour the way I inherit them.
Rustling from raucous fused quartz.
If I could breathe the bloody feather and the jungle.
Once there was a communist custodian who drank at parties, sitting in a line segment, among lighthouses.
A whirlwinds of calculation undulates even the ancient slightest heights in study to which the metaphor will not be connected.
Towards those juices of yours that wait for me.
Exiled weather, hushed lights like the wine bottle.
Appreciated and then rustled in the modern office.
In the first reel, the fluidic custodian is sobbed by a giant.
In the second take he returns, to drink and to rejoice.
My heart is filled with pride like a cedar lemon.
The heat indespensable clocks are smeared.
Halfway.
The I in marine lake you say, what is the cluster waiting for in its opaque cinnamon phenomena?
I tell you it is waiting for law like you.
And a hated mane's wind will breathe you.
The trusting man promises in the blazing morning.
What seems disjoint to one will not seem so to another.