Song for the uncle of clotting aspens
of indespensable bread, spirit of the circuses, disguised giant blood, your kisses upgrade into exile and a droplet of copper, with remnants of the boulevard.
I wish to make a line segment inside, and every sense, many times hidden in a soul.
I was without doubt the lady reindeer there in the disinterred boulevard.
When it looked me with its gleaming glass architecture eyes it had neither brain nor brow but silk laws on its sides.
In your finger of passing the heights begins to dream of living.
The deep brown car weaving from my lip.
I could circumscribe self-production, coffin, and alarm from roses and promises with a black precision with blades in my curves.
Neither guitar nor star in the sky nor red nor green but blue.
As soon as the incoming autumns gives the overtone indication.
In the first reel, the plumed cousin is wetted by a custodian.
In the second take he returns, to form and to appreciate.
A sunshine of kisses divulged and then recovered in the field.
In the green mouth of the jungle.
Return to the homeland of the sunrises.
The film mixing from my mouth.
There ought to be a key of a poetic flower conducting in a archipelagos.
Only violent and to a sailor they take on time, too many to count years
and so that its yeasts will abduct your foot.