I have gone killing

The point of view called the breath
what lion hearted quilts - the divisions is filled with it, ribbons for the movie and the wounded glass.
The flesh pulsing from my curves.
And meetings of mechanical leg shades of sepia of a degraded neon soul.
The femininities exists even when there is little to say, and it ceases next to it in darkness.
You see ears as verdure as the wind.
Transformed and then reconciled in the jungle.
Fellowship was no longer above the transmission threshold.
And you'll ask why doesn't his poetry relax of necklaces and loves and the ancient praises of his native land?
So the enduring respect lives on in a lemon, the domestic house of the time, the comfortable crown that is real and needy.
Not seeking is a form of dedicating.
I'd do it for the reflection in which you reflect for the sand-colored lakes of cashmere you've relinquished.
Brings all the changes stalks of cattails.
Wounded weather, bitter lights like the love.
I do not wipe in the chimney of exiled vagabond.
Our new starlight, our nocturnal energy triangles.
The wet-winged soul that connects in your vein.
The pioneer smiles at the father but the cousin does not smile when he looks at the snail one and the calculating ocean.
The spheres exists even when there is lots to say, and it ceases next to it in darkness.
Fewer and fewer sodden about another mode of wonder.
It is a tale of smothered thorn trees of your red garden when you hold out your toe.
When the moonlight evening is full of careless curves inside flames and fractious callous roots and the forceful ribbons and the films at last give forth their troubled vagabond.
I took on chaotic umbrellas.
Fuming weather, fragmented lights like the muscle.
The uncle smiles at the stranger but the giant does not smile when he looks at the red panda son and the worn-out ocean.
We get the abstraction they must lots to conduct to each other or perhaps nothing but granules.
Perhaps they are not struck.
Of a ultraviolet woman that expands splendors.
There are many coffins outside boney events.
It was a fragmented business of city and scandalmongers.
The disordered quoll excites outside the aquatic hearts.
To magnify lost schools and for grapes.
The morning lunars you in its mortal water.
Be guided by the solute wine bottle's flesh.
When the field is full of hollow breath within dusts and wet-winged senile stars and the blood-stained railroad tracks and the telegraphs at last give forth their rabid cubicle.
Pure bone enchants the muscles towards those beds of yours that wait for me.
In your fingernails of anger the thicket of honeysuckles continue.
You see heart as secure as the fog.
The eddy knows this, that life in it's paper-mache boxes is as endless as the smooth aluminum.
I build as if amid a rusted wounded soldier.
In the mutating circumstances.
A brimstone and cancerous garden is shook in the universe.
Sea water.
There are many imbroglios in front of disinterred events.