Författare: stbg

The ballad of twilight centuries sunlit blood passing our buzzing middle worlds mortal route blazing on enchanted hearts in an odour of ambition facing the landscape being of a hundred grandfathers.

We are pierced by milk like servants of furrows.
Cadaverous psalms leave our bodies undressed as pickled societies armored with the appearances of bloodhound continents.
Bad sirens orbits our goods as we unbutton the sleep.

This constantly and furious nostalgias of cracked rags bursting into the dressed colors of soundproof symmetrical voices.
Its like the distant gossip of dead stars.
Of words and saliva from the of drawers of clouds, barking.

Our cities feeds on the streets desires to harvest the patterns of my plundered pillow.

Particle patristics located by an indescribable Hercules is painting my unconscious descendents of spectacularly loud angels while devouring constellations like cannibals praying to a rosy hell in an eyelid glimpse of mosaic time.

Our tongues sits in a sky celibacy as the creation push the neckties peacock-style towers of primeval space-seed, chalked on a white wall with mummified navels magnified.
We cannot receive the wings of a larger yellow to page beyond the sense of a sculptured euphoria there.
Its like being in genesis of a backstage universe.

Electric marmalade filled with zeppelins arriving on the garden of stars like heavy elephants.

In the dictionary of the white wind, asphalt offers the invincible light.
Its living in divine bellies.
And in a dawn of childrens past antireasonable ponds.

Never flowers the space in its weightlessly clotted grow.
Like any whirling memory of a grape it may turn its geometrical dreaming into echoes as a mute radiant tale.
Its like I am pasted into it by the absolute.

Leaves of a decorated chorus on the ballet of symmetrical life is wearing the castled universe of a dressed horizontal renaissance.
It will always rearrange it’s grotesque presumptuous vanity.

Painted currents nourishing the ruins of clawed artificial shapes like human skin from loud continents.

To prove nature we assign the volume of published generals modeled to fit our senses as a thing in titles by wearing organs of the past.
We sculpture and scratch time in each tormented stone and breeding lunar like hyphens in air.

Like decorated scarecrows a single flower will understand a mirrored lie replaced by servants knees on years of harnessed lightning.
Am I the butterfly to the sphinxes celibacy by being push and bones and instantly discharge the sky´s creation.
My lips can fold all articulated years and turn your flesh dry.

Strange small conditions inside this city running in red with giants when we touch the yellow clearing of our bodies breathing the pilgrimage of pictures to understand the feedings of tomorrow mornings.

All our needs challenges the hypnotized balances formation of any submarine calculations because the moment rules its right like navel images whispers its control to the appearance of a word-replacing cellular opposite.

The horror of my battering a thousand mazes rolling me from age to age on a cursed instrument made of our gutters in the sky.

I have a black look
A mask
I have placed like a machine working from the universe in

Another suburban white silent pavement watching a passed seductive dream crowning the chimneys darkness from their illuminated solitude like singing kettles in an ever-present torment of time.

Hope always become my flesh’s reason of earthly senses, living in the dream between the coolness of forever and the innocense of all despair.

I harvest a sky over a wall of faces.

The vivid atmosphere of my landscape is dressed in an hour of a beautiful past flashing through the clothes of a dancing presence.

These feminine mirrors that owns the seasons of myself.
They are the first that covers my heart.
Like an instant key, a reflection in the eyes of a good second.
It is where I voyage.

I have found words that devours the alphabet of wounded flesh.

Where crossings pass the decorated hearts of naked blasphemies, our tears pride a thousand forests.
All curses returns this faun of fingers repeated to the tearful light of a lost mingling.
It is a madness like a carnival of glaciers.
A gasping echo of an unknown wasteland.

The corresponding remains we suffer of recovered galleries and their diversions.
Of that at the before us, wherein we suppresses the world.
It is a place of alteration.

The feets of the infinite is thickening
A closing dark drownings of my thoughts in moments that glows for any adored memory as they summon my passed you.
I remember me and this sweetness, it curles around the rose-coloured ashes.

I am the unclear loneliness and bare dizziness of a higher wish beyond the silent light’s travelling above the my itself of you beyond the trees.
It is what i have made from the rarest evening land i decorate as shadows gently fall.

It is the coming of this skins originators.
And all the birds of inner balance will fly out like a will of houses breaking into new giant empties with the find of an old morning.
Only my drill within is wearing my company.

The sky freeways are spaced carnivorous scenes painted on the page of groaning windmills with secret graffiti speaking of timeless temples.

In the before i have whispered from a child-breath underground while the sidewalk rules where fashioned with yesterdays eyes.
Its like miracle confetti for your mind, and old monuments becomes your tongue.

I found a strong arrived seeing as away at everywhere watching them all still circulating like in a middle remain it is too late for me to turn to.
That wheel don’t size my were.

In clutter verse of your silver praise the bright cold cries of the divided black custom made paradise suffers.
Face it, you are a convert.
A pilgrim.

In here my visions traces one another with flocks of morality were the unreal earth forms the paths by feeding on clouded dreams among those first feelings that were born with me.

This forbidden prehistoric own you have of ground materials.
Its like a raw quality judas dropped into all the testament of facts.
I surface there like a backyard judgment.

The must take precuations covered by literal branches that make any vulgar herd hide in circles from the one who order the birds.
It is the same with trees.
They all nests.

Our faces are clocks towards a formeless astral hunger of burned stars pointing to an hour of a liquefied distant north where we catch fire and shuffle through the colors of this world.

I anger dark innocent reason.
And blood, but as a selfish injury to everything earthly in between the consequences.
It always make my senses feel like they are dying.

A ghostly revolt carrying the days passing with the sun’s robe in a huge exhausted citysquare of thinking with time returned as a white transparent treasure in a squandered world.
This whiteness will certainly do wisdom to it.

I accept the blood conscience injustice from my hope and evil despair of the dark right living bread in between my tolerate sky-coloured senses, and the warmth speak I hear of you who have to become the torments of my earth.

My memory here shades the silent hands in my dream of the bare heart like the orange glances in a void getting lost on obscured words.

By an unknown crossed door of brightness the dark imaginary watchings meet its findings stripped from all the flaring grips of falling out from this one second to the next, the closer I come to you.

A country of waves living, listening to an old call bending me with the lost tidal architecture of an abandoned shadow assassin.

Only where the I alone shred the tongue in you, we sing without the traps that we endure of people’s bees.