Stefan Stjernberg.com

My body respect all of me like a stranger.

The black street of wandering among the foolish sky children simply furrows the powers you sustain in a fruit.

A wild stygian knight of garments leaning upon a dark bestial beggar. It is the ghost heros first having of disappointed air.

The obscured void in dreams and of my image hands me the words of
my lost silence by seeing where the desires shape consumes me.

Fragile ways with love descending naively in itself for more to see in a luminous dress far away from the masses
You just fall
Like into the animal sleep without the wandering transparency of that face any crowd wants to see when i simulate myself in them
It is this dark visible space where i have enough of all the gestures,
Of me
I have my sweet seeing on wings of elsewhere in a sad light planted here as i am scaffolding me to a more persistent sun

I’m one filled with distant things
things i hear to be my silence
My remote you, a butterfly
You be me and a voice, a voice
like a word flown in melancholy
It reaches me in the cooling absence of a touch

The dawn harvests the deaf vanishings of the enclosed more in every age with clouded wings of feared cries
I believe the dreaming will age our words in sleeping things
with the sound of the crowd

I will take a sad hour far to build a knew night of constellations
While ignoring other minds singing in me
The joyful unaware of me in the wrong dream
taking the if into the ever present self a knew

I wanted my have of my what because when imagination does words,
a ravishing thread that has it in chains of indifference is speaking
There is an I in pessimism
To say a constant to nothing
A language of flesh to attempt
But i am my well,
the floating necessity of the proven enough

Dimmed red burdons casting spells on the clumsy recesses only greedy hands can see
A me being, fighting
It is the innermost i
With the mind that makes it all at hand
And on the liquid ground of time
Inside our faces we are all ignited organs on the appetites of childhood wonders

Awaken in between the sound of light and the simulated water in the visible temptation of error
I welcome the immensity of rising colour
Of medusas space
that living limits of love
And all the descending fields of life
All the playful lightning nights, paralysed by us
Filled and undefined by birth
like the stars against a phantom joy

The suns warm cries let me change that light lizard light
with the taste of the variety of darkness
I consult these stones provided for by the parallels passes made less close to me
while the sky breaks and reach my way
There is no safe place around for me here
it is my origin

Blind unwilling limits
perhaps unknown to all between the eyes of the paralysed coloured sails
The other is like that of which folding is barely not enough
Like in a wretched contour of a welcome
You be descending there in the elsewhere autumns
in the immensity which lights the grains of night
It is the ripples praise of myself simulating the living space possible in a bouquet of fingers,
and the faceless itself that carry on the mornings and plant the first words on the scattered images of consiousness

Strangely,
it’s like you’re a breeze
The else you surround me with
while the shadows moving along with my footsteps

When visited in my outside climb, that heart of who, mirrors the manners of the letters in a mist and the pieces i hear of invisibility
It is the dawn i window in the wildly distant wheels of silence
It is the loved raindrops dancing in the above behind the returns of its hiding in the blackness of my night sky

We are judging hugeness in one substantial hymn on which we equal the popular chord of our forefathers with the strange circuits of crystal balls
However, the sky water will always bundle us with the blonde smell of our shadows like bright spinning portraits of dark frontiers with forgotten latitudes pushing us up and down until the stars are gone
But who is going to collect the stars?

All currents above the eyelid sun make play to pure arms of roses without the surface tears
I have my red fingers in the masses of things
In the nights of mountains, and beyond
I can see the atmospheric conquerors in motion of unimaginable heroism, and in the places we dream of

The flattered refrains of a warm mist in voiceless tender
My old voyages created with painted towers possessing the translated landscapes rhythms
I have to fly into your brain not to lose the sound of my own
Will you whisper something before you pinch me?

The wind sets with its limbo surrounded by a church of my neglect
By my possible golden innocence
Of dubious flowerless tales, and regulated in the alchemy of painted horrors
It is a crusade of unrecorded senses
a performance of my unknown knees

Under all the anatomical changelings of feathers
and all the cows
You feel the last pull of the great commandments to dress the aha conception in the serious department
Our front is witnessing the poles in the drawing-room of the atlas eye nerve
It is the you with her and this broken doll dancer

Realities that seeds absence have the melancholy eyes of petunias who inhabit their shape from bad water
Like in a uniform elektric hell of tears in a pinned circuit to recover their hearts fallen into locked arms we add places to our mouths in dressed remains and swallows the changed perspectives
This unpredictable sticky ground of skin weaving a web over our own making

That unseen listening to, the reading of the first stones beneath a murmuring endless carrying
The smell from peeling off the layers on curved words
Of things
beneath the hollow geography
Of the undercurrents cluttered sleep without the voices that the bottom mountains glued to the wall
I think i hear it call to me below

Towards the sacrificed i am endearing the abyss and the staircase down that morning with a smoking chameleon taming the body in eternity
A quiet darkness dress my weddings waiting
I am the icy voyager of the inscribed sky dancing on clouds

The sparkling crowds of sirens blessed you in praying posters among lemon dreams
Your eyes wear the mornings hearing furnished by antique rooms of you from ceremonies in mosaic adoration born in daylight sins
There is no one else but us

By night, satin on wings passing on steep pillows in beautiful and divergent hours
Silent patterns watches me following from its dancing future
Only the dreams from far on my walls herd into a knew presence
It is a delicate change to the waves of memory

The heat of the transparent something having years returned of the who to dark my never known dream that hear the injustice of the sensitive flesh
Into man, the conscience between the you and the tolerate self i have to continue between the who that will me, and my what who made me
They are sources depending on my innocence

A blue tear place slumbers among invisible lions
I claw the hiding of touch in my consuming of the beneath in the last eyelids of things where the rope-dancers steps on terrified manners
Perhaps i have to bend my chest to the feeling of a hundred me and face the perception of your haunted body in a taken recognized drifting
Like in a leap from age to age on the path of the who i mind in any waiting reality

Gliding on the continuous passing of sound,
i too meanders by parts in breathing these words
I also walk in the light of twisted tentacles where the poles furrows my clouds on scenes i harvest with eager silk, and i write new skies talking on black colors dressed by the shade, playing on a soft breeze of life
The sunlight of lifetimes alone populate a universe of sudden hours in whirling rhythms crying while brightness plunder the primal ghosts and riding it as fading prey
My red horse dreaming bears the stray white suffering of judgement to gaze the tongue of my imperceptible vertical senses

We fade alive while devouring our exile by keeps of a clothed frail breath already behind all evenings in a surprised moonlight
That last of our owls does mistake the if in between and the near of my sleep, and i remember how an awaken drop of the slightest day never take hold

The innocence of the nocturnal meeting in an enclosed covering of beds and dawns
A breeze of Sweetness
Of leaves i embrace as a whole
You are colouring my pure sound of no light

The in one siren, and my one sky, with the magic of tomorrow stars listening behind my back and alternating the coming visits of my small sleeps
It is the only origin with longer unknown images of night that makes me suffer the old shoulders
My heart is as impatient as the half-memory that shelter me in the streets like the silence weaves of yesterdays sighs
A home that no sentence would utter
I give it to daylight

We are a public door with inside turns of a dressed existence
With sparks to form hours and motion as children of huntsmen we are also beating butterflies in our pieces of before
That sky is going to make my electric belly draw the evenings hunger with intensity on my own skin for the surrounding hands to add arms to the sun,
and also to the crying mind of humanity

Before ballads chase this element of time or this bored smile dying
the green clown and i becomes nothing
Space across the will of the big riding above is often me in the clouds of an exiled pass of time altering those infinite pasts memories
That night is you beyond my will
My mistress of blood to summon up the search

Cooling transparent lips having passed the absurd to evil me with undoubtedly unaware floors
The luminous fever under myself resembles the naked dark reason you meet controlling you
They speak your poses and you embrace them as they mask nothing of you to others
But they unveil you to fruitful lightning

The living me lives in a herd of regrets and survive those of you in the struggled nothing you have provided in the hunt for human havings
I am keeping my thousand earth seasons around me for decency
What balance is me in the cultivated yet made of in this imprisoned mask?
I am just a harvest of myself

It is itself of the emptying
The who to the lamp
The don’t and my falling, gently
Dare them to move my chimney in which everybody in separation decomposes

From This wall in cold ink
the nights towards the never goes into the smell of a will
The blue hollow meets land with the garden child of moments being the time lost only to the known and far from this
It is where my judgment pick the beautiful path of why and with i like

From the white of things and the waiting covered as something hollow
The stars moves the even word from the old unseen night sky
And the touch for places with that unconscious subway life is in the sealed excerpt but it is not shedding time only
Soft gestures of morning bodys soaked in pieces of ourselves we each like and try
It is the right mind of escape

The land and i are wandering in something like a whisper from a dreaming too far under the conscious voice of my mind
Vainly these eyes are leaving my substance there in a wakening
A balance will hammer me with some kind of certainty of the last made, to honor the transparency
This beating is the fragment of echoes destined for me
All i have is the impulse by one really lasting argue descended to refuse a day always on I
My tired nails thinking themselves into being as i am tracking the first story outliving the fear riding the cities as a draped cry that clusters the acknowledgement of memories against the early layers of intimate sunlight
It is a compromise of lips and heart
an autoplay backup out of an imitation

We prefigures our clarity
and cover the silence with the mad bouquet that miles the deep retreat of promises to the illusion of vanished gifts between its passing of the sleep
Its a mistake of art
A decorative torture of matter

The sun moves again
And nourish this abstracted light that wraps in a great black of alone to the born flame we grow in a twighlight
From that so of people i am, the sudden garment around the circle of grace in any hour of life, turn black into gold
The hybrid remain of any orphan indecisions of the crowd
have already changed how my silence is spent

The my with an unbelievable magnitude
to that of a child’s holes and content in a vertical mingling
I am a host with matches of a magnetic tongue
The I to become the clockwork hourglass axe
beneath the insensible mirror lips of my unfolding
It is suddenly the making of myself remembered