Stefan Stjernberg.com

We carefully give burned nerve fibres to formless clocks in a lake of flesh. It is a marble dance we circle through by sober warmth and fever. A Frozen shock on strange legs in a memory licked stiff.
Its like we are without the shuffle of magic faces.

My concerned monuments is drifting behind the posture of our acting. Between the nights star knittings on the body of vulgar space and this vaguely overjoyed chamber of eternal thought they turn into time.
It is the strait anthems of sparkling daylight beings.
The fortunetellers of ink.

Flow as the learned wellspring leaves in far light and stars words is fading at our wicked drowned opaque dreams on dead vagabond flowers.
Today, a single brief however in beyond is the mechanized wanted inwardness in a vertical falling formula most of us does drop like mad horizontal contents of unwanted euphoria.
That highly never sometimes state the extremes of comprehension eating from the senses of a slumber.

My memory space me into an alphabet like a used exchange of daylight with an empty centurys compass of a dark angel.

The diamond shadow grows in dressed clouds with white self-created swarms of symmetrical mouths
from the above, where my costume itself is a frequently bursting room of always in old flesh.

Finally, this large violated aromatic curtains ware of polished carnivorous life is melted on the road of faces with the arms of decorative opuses.
They are our proud servants to extinct crocodiles.

My subconscious sculptures the sense of rational meaning to a before of this configurative infinite afterward of working matter.

Like mechanical pilgrim’s dolls on magnified nocturnal lenses our projections disfigures the abyss of the white clocks.

The claws of a navel mind branches me with a cartesian seesaw trying to feed itself from the skin of old sayings.

I am not a noiseless you.

The planted tongues in my blood melts flesh and deflower the stars of their nature in well-fitting quicksilver lips.

My senses are being furnished by a waxed harvest in a wardrobe of frost showers.

Beneath the lunar salt-buttered flamboyant flesh brains, climbing on volume and purged of swollen roses, filled with gelatin nights covered with black tears, all will vanish in a wicked gray that leaves no trace.

This feathered lightning is stroking at a second perpetual obscure will of worlds breaking into my head like a landscape without handles. It is growing out of this living, dressed in its underwear.

Our manners scales in me like hawthorn furnish my beliefs behind this dark, spaced away brewing presence by which I greet you.

I can litter myself with the cold umbrellas of our regular existence dressed as a millimeter lion.

I am sleeping on this vertical space where my head flowers like a flesh garden inside a fur of dancing hands.

The great voice of streetlight brands pass over the citys shoulder with the sky-wheels heads of midnight ornaments clotted among its branches of tranquility.

When my heart takes hold of its spirals like an angry army and sets out into a season of fever with eyes daring the world behind me, I collect things on earth that hoists the flame in my head, its a kind of a voyage.

The swimming pleasures of clouds under the frozen human child-wheel are clothed in my breathing mirrors by those that wear them in the deepest part of this strangely forgotten being.

With the water stars in chains, i have been a wax angel with fingernails that swarms in the arms of planets no one here can name.

The salt collects my constellation of screams in the sensation of a new skin fastened around this anger next to the slow suns of my thoughts liquid judgement of flat prayers.

I smash the numbered like pretension of need my aero sick calculations of understanding have in the hypnotized intermissions of a transchromatic beautiful blind.

The contradictory place of time in my self-generating personification of a second, makes the New Testament very small.

The realities breathes beyond the lily landscape light like a thirsting engine between my age and the orphaned embraces of my gluttonous ancestral flesh at the end of the air.

With countless of their soundproof howls, they hurry into the noisy accompaniment of the grandiloquence they wake in the clouds with psychic candy, and change into barking herds.

I can make the horizon of my hours clouds rain diamonds to light the flowers where the stars dwell of my childhood nights dancing heartbeat.

A morning ocean of visionary arms bridges a chimney of expectations into a river of sweet smelling faces.

I am an intricate shape of air milking a star of its amethyst heart at the frozen gates of old heavens prose surrounded by the broken touches of a communion with the dark.

I turn behind the articulated silhouette of the reverse we are breathing when standing on the cold beauty of a dream.

Being an old-man’s game of stylized ardour my ancient iris of boring distraction is identified with a body of life people use as a sarcophagus.

Mad hope is soaked in the opposition of my thorns dancing on a tightrope and mating with the wrath of my corpse when i am crowning my skin in the corruption of my blood.

This present is managing my boredom watching this beastly libidinous ballad wearing us like a warm room of a grotesque bed-cover hiding us from meaning.

The fur of the cold interstellar diamond wind pulls the nighttime horses on the pillars of timeless marble to harvest the volume of lunar flesh.

I am this silk dance displaying our clotted adornments in coagulated tears of white frost.

Wearing the breath of butterflies in the bellies of a velvet infinity beds the earth in a primordial immensity of glistening stars that shakes the limbs of my darkness width.

I bend my landscape geometries into hollow spaces with a multitude of years filled with paraphs gaps of a shimmering unreal.