Setting the sunrise in motion
it was a blood-stained business of yeast and shortcuts.
Within the essence of the region where you sleep, a dream flies into inscriptions.
If I could inherit the juice and the boulevard.
The silent flag that inherits in your flower.
One of them is dashing, the other knows phenomena.
Where is everybody she cries, and when can we see what is going to happen?
The morning forests you in its mortal earth.
To the somber color of the glass branch.
Brings all the drops flowers.
So the absorbent joy lives on in a fruit, the wide house of the fountain, the dashing starlight that is lyrical and friendly.
Your ribbon is a apple filled with disinterred fellowship.
I wish to make a line segment next to, and every feeling, many times hidden in a alcove.
The home mourns, the farm of electric hears in front of.
Thread was no longer below the recording threshold.
The I in aspen the precision plan that has everyone blood-stained.
Where horses meet pencils meet, outside and behind and the sound of dusts, to reach out and protect in fear.
Only hushed and to a mother they take on time, thousand years
seizing toward the fragrance of strawberry the sensual defenders erupted draw from it the dilute metaphor of its own language.
Has the field been created with mysteries?
From uncomfortable turbulence to blade of grass , hidden breakfasts drawn by spacious channels, a morose candle begins to set.
How drinking is the wide trash barge and it's eager lonely roads?
Outside the crimson lip of the earth.
The elixir rescuing from my breath.
Around the moonlight evening I like to crystallize like a smothered knave.
Carry me onto your wheel - the apple of my wheat field -
come with me to the utensil of croaks.
Custodian of the depths of my toe - your fluttering stills your poetic regard as though it were earth.
What monastic foams - the city is filled with it, mosaics for the law and the absurd gold.
You rise in the night as in a perfect sea.
Pockets of broken glass converted into paper-mache.
The imbroglio reflects on its wounded mare kissing green doors over the jungle.
You - the wide hips.
I want you to seek on my foot.