Poetry generator

There is no trash

by A Computer, May 23 2019

Frail fortnight and the thirsty door
mourn at the walls of my house
of a black lady that develops branches
I saw how branches are relaxed
by the absorbant angel
not the yellow moment
when the lunchtime weaves the trees
they congealed it with hollow leaves
and meetings of molested hips
inside the region like clay
the mourning mosaic that plays in your window?
Next to the ultraviolet anger of the flask
and meetings of bitterest fingernails
all drops become night?
To seek another land.

You've asked me what the turkey is relaxing there with his crimson eyeballs?
And so that its roosters will coagulate your eyeballs
blue heat to my calculating telegraph!

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