Poetry generator

Tell Them That I Am Giving Up Growing In Cameras

When the modern office is full of inevitable leg
amid jackals and wounded pale mosaics
and the bitter lunars and the salts
at last give forth their dilute ghost. In the first scene, the human cousin
is forced by a elder. In the second
reel he returns, to perfume and to shine.
You've asked me what the crab is circumscribing there with his opaque sand-colored eyelids?
I reply, the necklace knows this.
A fog of flowers
I salute your absorbant plum
and envy your esoteric pride.
Pulled out and shut out like a elixir.

One algorithmic option and all stars become noises.
Stranger of the depths of my
leg - your beginning
stills your slender regard as though it were wind.