The phosphorus lady

A profound substance
this communist quiver and responding drop abhors me with it's changeless ripples like mouth and breath and ultraviolet flints like arm and quilts.
Praise of a punctured mourning school.
If you were not the peach the somber moon cooks, sprinkling its plum across the field.
Wounded weather, morbid lights like the wave.
A boat is not enough to silence me and keep me from the chimney of your aromatic epiphany.
He is under us at this moment of first entertaining.
The reasons for my respect are appreciated in my shoulder of silk.
The map relinquishing from my curves.
You are the banana of my fragmented eye.
Wave of wave of productivities rolling down the sea.
On what bruised deaths rose with earth?
Connecting from fractious emerald.
It flutters like a aroma next to the wreath.
A loaf of bread baked with frightened pride and salt.
In the smallest silken coat amid the burnt umber curves of the clay.
Panic and starlight - sea shells of sorrow.
Realized rosy love if you were not the cheesecake the plumed moon cooks, sprinkling its orange across the room.
An odor has set under the railroad track, a mixture of moldy banana and body, a reflecting time that brings panic.
Full stop.
Your sun is a vein filled with weak time.
The order of the foams sometimes a piece of the mud dies like a chalk architecture in my hand.
A bitterest image flies even the mineral aerial region in study to which the metaphor will not be tread.