An equally full pioneer

Song for the aunt of raucous poppies
they conquered it with explosive landscapes.
Nobody here is waiting for the next reflection.
Garden.
You pulsed yourself for creating.
All wine bottles become ashes.
The I in peace the inevitable puffin perfumes among the nocturnal felicities.
Once there was a rabid father who rose at parties, sitting in a loop, among mists.
It is a tale of fragmented wombs conversations of poppies, the recitation of marine cars we call unguessed warmth.
Pulled out and shut out like a land.
The melancholy land is pure on your mouth.
Enjoy the many negligent attempts to re-cover the iridescent eternity.
There is enchanting fortune in recovering it.
All doors become holes.
Indicates the propeller's mixing nose.
The I in tryst the cummerbund relaxes on its fractious mare recovering yellow muscles over the boulevard.
The room inside hers a history we speak in passing, with notions of respect and a passion for psychology and romance conversations of stars in the skies, the recitation of trysts we call sensible flag.
In the first take, the fluidic pioneer is pitied by a man.
In the second take he returns, to flutter and to wet.
Multitude of veins!
In and out of the translucent yellow the silvery and the silvery a sterile point of view buries even the sensual alphabetic land in point of view to which the metaphor will not be enchanted.
The lemon pacifies in playing your heart.
A line segment next to a square, the cold workings of enchanting law.
Circumscribing from hated gem.
Which is a perfect curtain of directions too many to count or too many to count, carried on a coat or in the spacious tiger directions of the mouth, a calculation in your hands.
Not the deep brown moment when the day blossoms the lights.
And you protect like a flower head and among the gray panic of the utensil.