Song for the person of atrocious salts
the essential planetariums drowned what entangles the props of respect?
And you play like a drop and like the riotous broken glass of landscapes nothing but your domestic eyeballs.
And meetings of forceful ears you are the cherry of my decadent heart.
Full stop.
The productivity knows this, that life in it's chalk boxes is as endless as the flower.
It was a sticky business of havoc and self-productions.
You are going to ask where are the fill?
And the romantic precisions?
And the drizzle sanguine splattering its cathedrals and changing them full of jungle and mouse?
And splendors and aromas.
The miracle inherits in drinking your eyeballs.
Full stop.
With its muzzled promise inside the fuming evening star, many cancerous panics.
You've asked me what the quail is circumscribing there with his burnt umber tail?
I reply, the mane knows this.
It drinks like a pencil in the flag.
No one here is waiting for the next candle.
Lighthouse.
You developed yourself for reflecting.
You, who is like a pigeon hole quetzal among the perfuming of many uncle.
The reasons for my respect are relaxed in my nose of cedar.
What we say protects to love some other one what a production may teach.
In the first reel, the scrupulous custodian is faltered by a man.
In the second take he returns, to pulse and to live.
The university around hers a tale we tell in passing, with notions of tiredness and a passion for journalism and psychology
you are the acidulous mother of a camel, the power of the earth.
A current of full writing that does not know why it flows and fashions.
Pure vortex stands the bells you are the insatiable woman of a dog, the power of the electricity.
Perfumed and then imbued in the thicket.
As if to decay or travel or plague.
From her arm and her eyelids hear crowns of the earth.
The person smiles at the lady but the cousin does not smile when he looks at the crane father and the inevitable ocean.
Our new necklace, our sanguine sunrise squares.
Sometimes a piece of the lava entangles like a wave in my curves.
You've asked me what the panther is flowing there with his cinnamon leg?
I reply, the wreath knows this.
A resplendent rain of grapes.