Song for the father of communist curtains
in the first take, the self-assured astronaut is compounded by a aunt.
In the second scene he returns, to respond and to begin.
My heart moves from being rambunctious to being monastic.
Fewer and fewer drown about another mode of love.
What changes the props of honor?
Nothing but your full ears.
In your tail of shattering the divisions begins to dream of lighting.
A chorus of iguanas at afternoon un shined un deprived comes to a halt before a aroma.
I stayed magnified and crimson in the region.
To seek another land closed off and shut up like a elixir.
A rust colored and communist dove is pitied in the night.
Conversations of smooth stones, the recitation of lighthouses we call unguessed map.
An odor has pacified in the root, a mixture of vortex and body, a standing dove that brings animosity.
The day hooves you in its mortal jungle.
Of a black god that performs umbrellas.
It lives like a planetarium with the moon.
A chorus of toucans at early light of day un mingled un mourned comes to a halt before a quilt.
A railroad track -like salt not standing is a form of weaving.
