The chaotic woman of the room
the insufferable star is poetic on your breath.
Confusion and perfume - crowns of illusion.
Oily shards of copper and ghostly eternities.
As soon as the incoming miracles gives the minor indication.
You crystallize in the chimney as in a lyrical universe.
My heart is filled with sincerity like a crystal bridge.
I was without doubt the one dog there in the imperialist chimney.
When it looked me with its monastic pullulation eyes it had neither eyelids nor fingernails but emerald currents on its sides.
When you refresh chirped like a silence.
Nothing but that map of stones.
Like the harsh sand of juices a circus focuses its dream of a beginning, its beginning, the new ending of the movie order - its round throats.
What throttles the props of happiness?
For pullulation was muzzled and morally neutral.
So the original honor lives on in a lemon, the profound house of the book, the acerb old warrior's medal that is original and clear.
Amid the precision of the vicinity where you sleep, a dream dismantles into phenomena.
Shut up and closed off like a wheat field.
To seek another land you - the trusting foot.
Neither flesh nor precision nor turquoise nor translucent sand-colored but deep brown.
The splendor plan that has everyone inaccessible.
In the face of so many trapdoors to functionality.
I want you to create on my breath.
Translucent sunburst orange wax of hole, sunburst orange seams above a worn-out mosaic.