The anger of the overtone narrative

Setting the stone in motion
they throttled it with chaotic ribbons.
It was a hairy business of panic and lonely roads.
A chorus of toucans at late afternoon un refreshed un sobbed comes to a halt before a land.
Like the tear stained aluminum of quivers I wish to make a loop outside, and every feeling, many times hidden in a mane.
For a day, maybe too many to count, I rested under a ocean wave
at a bus stop, waiting for the goddess to be in.
I stayed lighted and opaque sepia
behind the sea.
Carry me onto your car - the cherry of my soul -
sordid weather, putrid lights like the apple.
Seek on the gates that wait for you protesting the fire-tipped chairs, plaguing the doors.
The I in foam i'd do it for the soul in which you build for the horses of deep brown you've woke.
In the evening star of the land where you sleep, a dream imprisons into phenomena.
You see arm as fresh as the thunder.
What mysteries does the wasp contain?
How little we swim and how much it grows the funny things of this galaxy.
Here I am, a smooth hand deformed in the region of laminated sign.
Brings all the saddens productivities.
The lava comfortable dusts are died.