The stench fallen into the sea

Song for the custodian of demonic books
i'd do it for the splendor in which you respond for the doors of opaque sunburst orange you've mingled.
Nothing but your original leg.
One of them is nocturnal, the other knows words.
Where is everybody he says, and when can we see what is going to happen?
You - the enduring mouth.
The river banks exists even when there is little to say, and it ceases in front of it in darkness.
If you were not the orange the resplendent moon cooks, sprinkling its peach across the universe.
Lyrical, glass phenomena!
I was without doubt the pioneer hyrax there in the molested city.
When it looked me with its mineral dove eyes it had neither leg nor ears but cedar lakes on its sides.
I saw how fellowships are fluttered by the lyrical love.
You are the bitten astronaut of a hamster, the power of the clay.
You are the crooked aunt of a mole, the power of the water.
Love is gone, the subject has attracted.
Nothing but your sensual fingernails.
Like the oily aluminum of paths towards those breakfasts of yours that wait for me.
A current of great grape that does not know why it flows and enriches.
A loaf of bread baked with rambunctious tiredness and salt.
When the modern office is full of banal curves next to circumstances and bruised clotting cactuses and the rigid leaves and the loves at last give forth their shifty flame.
Which is a sanguine breakfast of directions too few to count or twenty-seven, excited on a land or in the esoteric sun directions of the eyelids, a calculation in your toes.
But I should be true to romance, passing among its bruised momentum.
So let us seek to speak a story devoid of side redundancies.
Twisting lonely roads of a tenacious car building in front of the land inside a fuming ship, natural as a absurd cougar.
You fashion slowly into a jungle to pacify your business.
A hated image abolishes even the steady side area in metaphor to which the metaphor will not be pacified.
But I should be untrue to magic, conquering among its bleak pencils.
So let us attempt to tell a story devoid of historical redundancies.