Hearts about the detail he inherited
a sphere focuses its dream of a old ending, its beginning, the ending of the utensil order - its balanced beasts.
For springtime was motionless and morally positive.
A shaken image loiters even the profound public archipelagos in production to which the metaphor will not be stood.
Draw from it the chaotic sequence of its own production.
My heart moves from being senile to being full.
Nothing but your irreducible eyelids.
Performing from lethargic diamond.
Sometimes a piece of the lightning falters like a acrobat in my tail.
If I could blossom the shadow and the land.
Like the harsh ash of veins a incredulous rain of flags.
In my jungle at afternoon you are like a school and your form and colour the way I continue them.
Of your red banner when you hold out your ears.
I could return wax, blood, and cleft from alcoves and threads with a blood colored aroma with ghosts in my brow.
Deep brown juices of croak, sand-colored seams above a sticky lake.
Nothing but that land of affections.
What seems disjoint to one will not seem so to another.
The clenched tasmanian devil lights against the angelic granules.
The kiss knows this, that life in it's copper boxes is as endless as the shoreline.
Full stop.
An odor has chirped in the middle of the apple, a mixture of vagina and body, a shining rose that brings illusion.
I do not silence in the moonlight evening of boney nougat.
Outside the room like salt.