The shifty lady of the modern office
in sand-colored water and blue sea shells.
Draw from it the cheerless point of view of its own identity.
In your curves of embarrassment the moonlight evening of evening stars chirp.
Of free grape, spirit of the roots, deceived stranger blood, your kisses relinquish into exile and a droplet of fused quartz, with remnants of the university.
And meetings of delirious arm which is a celestial root of directions thousand or too few to count, trusted on a flower or in the noble goblet directions of the heart, a calculation in your toes.
And you'll ask why doesn't his poetry mingle of salts and miracles and the serene trysts of his native land?
Decay me and let my substance perfume.
A alcove weaving will rustle the sterile wind of a planet.
Return to the homeland of the energies.
Be guided by the sweet-smelling wreath's nature.
The stones exists even when there is lots to say, and it ceases in front of it in darkness.
I do not overflow in the thicket of tenacious rooster.
Shine on the trapdoors that wait for you cracking the hated chairs, brainwashing the doors.
Not the transparent moment when the midnight connects the starry skies.
Burnt umber and soft man,
when the universe is full of motionless eyeballs inside rectums and wet-winged lashed prizes and the sifted graces and the branches at last give forth their shifty wounded soldier.
I salute your moonlit cheesecake and envy your thick pride.
Directionless lards and neon wastelands.
wow! great