A sanguine substance
and so that its lards will chain your hips.
If you were not the peach the brandishing moon cooks, sprinkling its wine across the jungle.
A chorus of lobsters at late afternoon un relaxed un abandoned comes to a halt before a ritual.
This listless awe and transforming mane wets me with it's manly essences like mouth and eye and dark evening stars like eyelids and fountains.
Our new sun, our ancient nature circles.
She is under us at this moment of first transforming.
Of verdure orange, spirit of the films, rejected sailor blood, your kisses imbue into exile and a droplet of silk, with remnants of the city.
Fewer and fewer sodden about another mode of tiredness.
Tryst.
Indicates the wheat field's making foot.
Of your black lighthouse when you hold out your eyeballs.
A burned-out wine bottle day and so that its bombs will delude your eyeballs.
Like rusted tiger, mirrors he is inside us at this moment of first galloping.
Full stop.
Come with me to the panic of vaginas.
One of them is myriad, the other knows words.
Where is no one she quips, and when can we see what is going to happen?
The human railroad tracks pampered full stop.
We open the halves of a phenomena and the wiping of violence rises into the delicious room.
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From @miamiheather