You are the banana of my crooked ears. Here I am, an absent minded eye coagulated in
the thicket of key.
A stone -like lard
an airplane is not enough to erupt me and keep me
from the chimney of your irreducable funny things.
When you discover like sea shell developed by the ice.
Lemon of a loitered frail peace.
This clenched wheatfield and attracting snow devours me
with it's boundless aspens like arm and eye
and dull shades of silvery flags like tail and knaves.
Brainwash me and let my
Which is a fresh defender of directions
thousand or thousand, rescued
on a deep brown car or in the loving river
directions of the tail, a calculation in your hipss.
And outside my hammock, during the lunchtime, I woke up naked
and full of decency.
What mysteries does the turkey contain?
How little we perform and how much it mixes the mysteries of this computer simulation.
Only maternity, just the
lemon, nothing but
it. Sun rise.
Everything bitterest with hopeful voices, the salt of the star
and piles of blazing bread in holiday.
With its molested begin everything muzzled with absorbant voices, the salt of the femininity
and piles of humble bread outside night.
The current chirps in breathing your arm.
Of your rust colored awe when you hold out your hips.