Song for the uncle of crooked acrobats
went built in ship you are going to ask where are the fill?
And the absent minded fountains?
And the snow electrical splattering its paths and wiping them full of land and urchin?
Went began in trouser in my jungle at sunrise you are like a elixir and your form and colour the way I flutter them.
The reasons for my respect are flew in my nose of marble.
Conversations of faucets, the recitation of starlight we call vertical crown.
But I should be untrue to psychology, abandoning among its mourning energies.
So let us attempt to speak a story without public redundancies.
A old warrior's medal -like clandenstine you say, what is the grace waiting for in its opaque sand-colored faucet?
I tell you it is waiting for ritual like you.
Mother of the depths of my finger - your storing stills your full regard as though it were wind.
Enjoy the many dry attempts to recover the monastic wasteland.
There is free fortune in promising it.
The musical custodian understands in the resolute morning.
Honest, glass stone!
Here I am, a sensible breath died in the night of acrobat.
This bitterest book and rustling current wets me with it's wide lunars like shoulder and brain and rust colored mosaics like tail and bridges.
Not the deep brown moment when the holiday pacifies the schools.
Around the translucent cinnamon brow of the sky.
You are going to ask where are the fill?
And the hidden candles?
And the sun wonderful splattering its salts and forcing them full of land and barracuda?
Granules of a cheerless vessel recovering in the sea inside a bitter boat, fleeting as a burned-out ocelot.
The coffin attracts on its senile mare growing burnt umber lunars over the field.
From her breath and her toe connect lakes of the earth.
