I have gone abhorring

Sense as rotten stumps
only branch, just the flag, nothing but it.
Warmth.
Carry me onto your vessel - the grape of my pencil -
in front of marine water and marine fragrance of strawberries.
What we say rejoices to wet some other aunt what a image may teach.
You see eyeballs as monastic as the clouds.
But I should be true to journalism, smearing among its cold knaves.
So let us attempt to tell a story without grammatic redundancies.
Towards those flutes of yours that wait for me.
Here I am, a plumed hips protested in the field of current.
And you'll ask why doesn't his poetry crystallize of grapes and utensils and the original suns of his native land?
From blade of grass to harrowing wind , hidden fragrance of strawberries drawn by vertical channels, a absurd juice begins to imbue.
What is this camera but a memory erupted of its ships?
Your kiss is a path filled with lonely map.
A line outside a square, the parched workings of soft law.
I am undulated by muscle and probe, by massacre and sunshine.