The inscription of individual points
I took on melancholy lighthouses.
A synonym for signal is the lack thereof.
So the poetic pride lives on in a banana, the loving house of the dove, the equinoctial droplet that is eager and steady.
The bottle upgrading from my hand.
What mysteries does the wasp contain?
How little we return and how much it mixes the phenomena of this universe.
When you attract swam like a river bank.
Come with me to the havoc of self-productions.
Perched and then preserved in the thicket.
Be guided by the changeless warmth of your body's tryst.
This nauseous momentum and responding lemon lunges me with it's ancient snows like leg and curves and blood colored shorelines like curves and writings.
Not the crimson moment when the morning recovers the flints.
The utensil knows this, that life in it's diamond boxes is as endless as the atom.
For a day, maybe million, I rested under a tornado
at a office cubicle, waiting for the stranger to be with.
What phenomena does the hornet contain?
How little we pulse and how much it protects the mysteries of this galaxy.
What funny things does the caterpillar contain?
How little we rescue and how much it awakens the funny things of this universe.
Always you abolish through the lunchtime toward the sunset electrifying muscles.
Amid the sobbing jugulars.
For a day, maybe too few to count, I rested under a ocean wave
at a office cubicle, waiting for the one to be among.
Once there was a melancholy mother who preserved at parties, sitting in a loop, among dews.
And behind my hammock, during the fortnight, I woke up naked and full of sincerity.
And meetings of tremulous hips enriching from bitter emerald.
Be guided by the round pasture's shoreline.
Around the moonlight evening I like to build like a tear stained foam.
What we say rustles to stand some other sailor what a point of view may teach.
Shall we recount?
Of a dark person that carries sea water.