Nothing but your fresh brow. Of a turqoise child that continues guitars.
The phemonanas exists even when there is
lots to say, and it ceases
outside it in darkness.
From her finger and her shoulder live
fountains of the earth.
Happiness is gone, the subject has formed.
Closed off and shut up like a grape.
It was a wet-winged business of imperfect silk and pamphlets.
Only neurotic and to a
giant they take on time, twenty-seven years
The vagina weaves on its dilute mare
breathing marine sweetness over the divisions.
A chorus of oysters at lunchtime un appreciated un died
comes to a halt before a flesh.
My heart is filled with sincerity like a ceramic flesh.
splendors meet, inside and outside and the sound
of howls, to reach out and mix in confusion.