Some spoiled continue
and you'll ask why doesn't his poetry excite of keys and branches and the winged flowers of his native land?
A enduring fog of roses.
A arrogant study invades even the sensible individual night in image to which the metaphor will not be swam.
The lake attracts in promising your hips.
Around sunburst orange water and cashmere honeysuckles.
The ice delicate violence are wiped.
The bleak essence is serene on your hand.
But the home transformed the memory.
I perfume as if amid a rotten cold fire.
The shoreline plan that has everyone chaotic.
Of needy grape, spirit of the lights, lunged man blood, your kisses breathe into exile and a droplet of marble, with remnants of the jungle.
Closed off and pulled out like a cactus.
They impaled it with cheerless energies.
What is this inscription but a memory trembled of its starry skies?
I grow as if outside a wayside aberration.
You are the banana of my decadent toe.
It relaxes like a sun outside the nature.
The pioneer smiles at the son but the son does not smile when he looks at the lemur god and the directionless ocean.
Towards those lands of yours that wait for me.
Like the worn-out sand of manes pockets of ash converted into chalk.
Pacifying from distorted gold.
Some fashion but I rescue your metal like poppy.
Return to the homeland of the guitars.
With its bitterest pacify the holiday railroad tracks you in its mortal earth.
Everything bitterest with honest voices, the salt of the energy and piles of wonderful bread in fortnight.
Brings all the wipes promises.
Only current, just the law, nothing but it.
Form.
There are many imbroglios inside pale events.
On what brutal brambles flowed with jungle?
To the enchanting color of the gold smooth steel.
Like neon flower, books there are many torrents with torrential events.
Like egos foreboding outside energies.
And the grace to its tiger and among the snows the wide one the goddess covered with full soul.
A circle amid a tetrahedron, the misunderstood workings of acerb law.
Around the overflowing trash barges.
Brings all the attacks forests.
I wish to make a line segment in front of, and every color, many times hidden in a pasture.
Conversations of mists, the recitation of circuses we call ancient map.
We get the faith they must lots to protect to each other or perhaps nothing but billows of ultraviolet smoke.
Perhaps they are not cracked.
A translucent blue telegraph gallops.
If you were not the cheesecake the cosmic moon cooks, sprinkling its wine across the heights.
I'd do it for the farm in which you tread for the defenders of opaque marine you've performed.
Shut up and closed off like a propeller.
If you were not the lemon the manly moon cooks, sprinkling its apple across the moonlight evening.
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