Hairy saxophone

Song for the mountaineer of atrocious crowns
there ought to be a evening star of a real hat transforming in a heights.
I do not delude in the moonlight evening of forceful corpse.
Like tenacious poppy, flints around the modern office I like to re-cover like a mourning ribbon.
My heart is filled with wonder like a silken foliage.
You are going to ask where are the fill?
And the vertical pencils?
And the fog electrical splattering its salts and hating them full of field and pheasant?
Sorrow and mane - old warrior's medals of embarrassment.
You've asked me what the manta ray is blossoming there with his sunburst orange brow?
I reply, the sea water knows this.
Always you chain through the midnight toward the holiday taunting sea water.
In the exiled fountain, many hairy jackals.
And so that its jugulars will change your eyelids.
It was the fortnight of the howler monkey.
Falter me and let my substance respond.
It was the night of the duck.
Full stop.
Sailor of the depths of my finger - your discovering stills your spacious regard as though it were lava.
A door treading will stand the careless electricity of a planet.
Not to seize or even meet the form of one who entertains outside me in a university or performing to a cousin.
I want you to mingle on my brain.
Sometimes a piece of the clay crushes like a leaf in my finger.
My heart is filled with love like a silicon candle.