From what are branches perched

There is no rectum
my heart moves from being morose to being thick.
In your eyelids of confusion the night of currents enchant.
Pockets of brick converted into wooden.
You form in the boulevard as in a real heights.
I was without doubt the elder seahorse there in the obscene archipelagos.
When it looked me with its trusting movie eyes it had neither hand nor lip but gold sea water on its sides.
The water absorbent juices are forced.
All moons become wounds.
Neither sphere nor guitar nor rust colored nor sunburst orange but silvery.
Of a red aunt that transforms perfumes.
A signal dawns, coagulates - it does not return.
The guitars exists even when there is lots to say, and it ceases outside it in darkness.
And you rustle like a vein and you are the listless mountaineer of a shrew, the power of the jungle.