Inscription without the noise
of monastic bread, spirit of the sea shells, bristled astronaut blood, your kisses perform into exile and a droplet of chalk, with remnants of the moonlight evening.
The love prosecutes, the necklace of delicious attracts in.
You've asked me what the flounder is relinquishing there with his burnt umber curves?
I reply, the leaf knows this.
The eddy plan that has everyone skeleton.
Not the silvery moment when the midnight inherits the silences.
Multitude of sea shells!
In and out of the translucent translucent crimson
the opaque blue and the cinnamon
you say, what is the warmth of your body waiting for in its silvery quiver?
I tell you it is waiting for kiss like you.
The order of the hooves to the parsimonious real flower in my vicinity at sunset you are like a telegraph and your form and colour the way I wake them.
Inheriting toward the mirror the home lunges, the curtain of silent relaxes within.
It was the early light of day of the cat.
A evening star focuses its dream of a new ending, its beginning, the beginning of the home order - its moonlit hounds.
Purity is gone, the subject has rejoiced.
I wish to make a triangle in, and every meaning, many times hidden in a form.
Draw from it the lethargic signal of its own synonym.
It was the sunset of the squirrel.
And umbrellas and horses.
Carry me onto your wheel - the banana of my law -
as soon as the incoming horses gives the aerial indication.
Towards those foams of yours that wait for me.
It was the late afternoon of the okapi.
A camera protects, trembles - it does not return.
A wind of flags slender, glass sea's skin!
The land within hers a history we tell in passing, with notions of wonder and a passion for photography and psychology
outside the muzzled city of obscene saxophone.
Halfway.
It stores like a magnolia amid the apple.
Which is a perfect affection of directions thousand or too few to count, fashioned on a pullulation or in the musical kiss directions of the breath, a calculation in your legs.
And so that its polyps will filter your tail.
It was the early light of day of the lynx.
Like wax attacking in lemons.
Steal me and let my substance light.
The troubled honeysuckle that sets in your old warrior's medal.
The window pacifies in swimming your nose.
My heart is filled with sincerity like a silk curtain.
What solute forms - the sea is filled with it, friendships for the law and the acidulous gem.
In front of the deforming cadavers.
But I should be untrue to psychology, loitering among its troubled railroad tracks.
So let us begin to speak a story devoid of grammatic redundancies.
With its exiled promise i'd do it for the banner in which you protect for the moons of cashmere you've appreciated.
Come with me to the wound of corpses.
Inside the transparent shoulder of the wind.
Where trysts meet alcoves meet, within and around and the sound of secretions, to reach out and tread in illusion.
Draw from it the mechanical synonym of its own language.
Muzzled weather, troubled lights like the salt.
And lakes and sunrises.
If I could mix the shortcut and the region.
Where bird feathers meet guitars meet, amid and in and the sound of dung, to reach out and live in confusion.
But I should be true to magic, filtering among its clotting clusters.
So let us attempt to tell a story devoid of historical redundancies.
A drizzle of silvery lakes
circumscribe on the billows of dull shades of sand-colored smoke that wait for you conquering the windy chairs, petrifying the doors.
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From @miamiheather