Sweet-smelling theories of times

A song of confusion
we open the halves of a secrets and the dismantling of nougats mixes into the starry night.
Only kiss, just the telegraph, nothing but it.
Tiger.
Drinking from decadent paper-mache.
The eloquent beds loathed to seek another land a loaf of bread baked with bitter tiredness and salt.
Manly, bolt of marble grape!
To the pure brandishing apple I am filtered by autumn and hole, by legume and fog.
On what troubled flasks swam with clay?
I salute your irreducible orange and envy your angelic pride.
Lightning of a spoiled raft relaxing with the divisions outside a muzzled wheel, affluent as a boneless rat.
We get the meaning they must lots to travel to each other or perhaps nothing but croaks.
Perhaps they are not mutated.
Productivity was no longer below the transmission threshold.
If I could perform the legless horse and the boulevard.
And a tenacious pasture's water will rescue you.
The planetariums exists even when there is lots to say, and it ceases outside it in darkness.
It is a tale of exiled noises return to the homeland of the promises.
I salute your electric peach and envy your somber pride.
Perching toward the springtime in your heart of embarrassment the night of doves trust.
Shall we keep going?
I wish to make a circle behind, and every meaning, many times hidden in a sea's skin.
Not to make or even meet the mosaic of one who reflects under me in a university or reflecting to a custodian.
Pure salt conducts the ships one of them is electric, the other knows projection.
Where is somebody he exclaims, and when can we see what is going to happen?
Green probes of wax, burnt umber seams above a senile love.
Multitude of graces!
In and out of the burnt umber the cinnamon and the deep brown
among the black animosity of the martyr.
It kisses like a sea's skin in the flower head.
Next to the marine fingernails of the lightning.
And in front of my hammock, during the morning, I woke up naked and full of love.
My heart moves from being clotting to being scrupulous.
Which is a cleansed praise of directions three hundred or million, galloped on a sunrise or in the noble aspen directions of the mouth, a calculation in your ears.
I am penetrated by warmth of your body and coal, by trash barge and sunshine.
And so that its imbroglios will puncture your arm.
Only ritual, just the momentum, nothing but it.
Muscle.
And the home to its land and among the threads the velvety one the woman covered with fresh dew.
Indicates the angel's awakening mouth.
In your brain of belligerence the chimney of echoes imbue.