Poetry generator

Rotten Flesh

Wave of wave of tigers rolling down the sea. I wish to make a circle
behind, and
every sense, many
times hidden in a well.
They are all children
professional corpses in whose sensual spheres originate.
Relinquishing the pullulation of her smooth stone full of honor.
When the chimney is full of rusted tail
amid invasions and shady difficult starry skies
and the insufferable roses and the farms
at last give forth their motionless stench.

Blush on
the abyss that wait for you
faltering the burned-out chairs, chaining the doors.

Here I am, a cordial foot struck in the universe of apple.
Someone here is waiting for the next love.
Smooth stone. You loved yourself for upgrading.
Has the vicinity been lived with mysteries?