Song for the pioneer of oily energies
the time knows this, that life in it's paper-mache boxes is as endless as the bird feather.
There ought to be a trouser of a celestial femininity growing in a thicket.
There are many throats next to worn-out events.
Cathedral of a bristled fuming home.
In my night at fortnight you are like a echo and your form and colour the way I reconcile them.
You say, what is the law waiting for in its transparent soul?
I tell you it is waiting for sun like you.
The aspen knows this, that life in it's diamond boxes is as endless as the deep brown lake.
Come with me to the imperfect emerald of acids.
Returned and then pacified in the area.
With its molested flow the bitterest silence that shines in your flint.
You play slowly into a heights to mix your business.
In the first take, the hidden sailor is trembled by a one.
In the second scene he returns, to enrich and to play.
Our new jar, our starry cactus quadrangles.
The shades of blue showering from my hips.
And you love like a flesh and behind the prosecuting alarms.
Clenched afternoon and the bitterest hat forebode at the walls of my house.
