Poetry generator

There Is No Throat

Live on the waxes that wait for you
petrifying the bitten chairs, gnawing the doors.
Within the angel of the chimney where you sleep,
a dream overflows into phenomena.

You are the lemon of my directionless hand.
Pure vinegar forms the wells in my vicinity at twilight you are like a love
and your form and colour the way I relinquish them.

Only defender, just the
splendor, nothing but
it. Pencil.