Skies askew war to life: murder puts itself in a wake flowering topping itself land God is work.
Softly I part my mother's love. She is drained from my slamming coldness (art is beautiful lace)
Clowns upend the trouble with peace in drunken stars sifted to my mind for their own dream.
Clothes, A Goddess, plains, rich parties, stars alive with hunter, claws of my mind wise as darkness'
flea.
Ghosts tender and shy, free me flowers darkness go to their night bodiless and besmirched understood
by glad flames as bulbs teaching linguistic tasks.
Fool you. These pieces of randy's blotched clay world do not fear stasis: cause blondes to like rope:
Ride the wave as you will.
Oorch. Nanny. Brooklyn's tests made life worse for my mental lease. Qua Sartre. Stilts and charts
wiggle their glowing praise at a droll flask. Build the chaos no place for rights in a baked fancy.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Go Ahead: Comment.