Stefan Stjernberg.com

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.

Pale gelatin hearts carries our roses with lunar waters wearing warm flesh like flamboyant lions.

The cathedral of swarming light vibrates in me like the sweetened dread of electric sensibility.

Beyond of a away words are parachuting the unintelligible reach in vertical years of the immaterial deep we open when landing in a second of euphoria.

Stars with marvelous velvets claws tears into their seeds to display a tail wearing the seductive garments of diamond weather.

The organ of my evening coats the hour in a volume of living infinity.

Nothingness is our howling life of silence in the vegetation of noise devices.

The world of rational unpainted skins has changed into floral shapes by the thunder of winds and has fallen to the rude floor of shattered reality.

The red circulated seconds of black time from the invisible continents passed in dry tongues to answer the far night of lost servants, telling me this echo would be a light to this day and sun under the shadow of my mountain wardrobes.

Strange idle chameleons extinguishes their thirst drinking from infantile comets.

Debris can grow thick on the head of millennial mouths like any silent egg dreamings do in paper voices.

A saliva-covered world down the gluttonous clouds of undressed thoughts in thirsting morals is hatching the orphaned syllables of craving realities from the custom morals in human space.

Great dancing governments are eating unrestrained piled-up diabolical marmalade on monuments like crocodiles after a sublime time of regular pleasure in the great anything of ruthless domestics.

Like phosphorescent footsteps, daytime figures appearing onto my twilight sky in close company chasing the streets of ruined moments when the train of my fantasy breathes like rivers of waiting wonders.

All gently diving tears dissolves the dreamers of their mosaic speculum of touch behind the seductive dressed variability of human eyelids when littered with the elements of nations like boiling milk.

To be the inaudible world in you that darkness corners against that wicked and infinitely written time between the offered words and the laboriously followings of each small day.
Its what my inner language meet at my outer limit.

Transference as forms interpret that arbitrary work into myself as all objects call my will and consume the blind life of neolithic chance in starlight repetitions to my inner songs of dreaming.

My exhausted little branches of above turns the windy alphabet to mondays definitions with the tentacles of a woman selling old daylight covered with the horses of my black emits.
In a sense it is the biological written blossoming spell of light.
It is also the echo of the still to come.

Frozen beyond the never be and the audible conscience in forms of the place with no whether.
Of earth in this blind white beauty.
I will always pray to its shadow.