Etikett: poesi

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.

Though I face a delicate blind
Like a reborn being on a changed threshold the night sky itself gives away
I am bonding my misty presesence both at hands and through the space of each lived unending future

They chain words as a constant of time and hanging entrusted belongings on me to reassure any desires born of only proven domains.
Me and my dreams.
I am a mysterious error to the imagination of life.

Sure, my maternal presence is walking me down the planets weariness to alert my walls of childhood under the broom of flesh, to meet the absent part of me beneath the who that follows this air.

The pathways of shell faces surrenders to the beast of courage for the tidy innermost corpses and wonders to be covered in the remains of others.

I ground myself between the bubble moss and that vibration that places my within beneath the clothes of my expression.

At last at vibrate life from the where that owns this figures stars when they appear with time and matter to the sound of thousand eyes looking at my pillow.

I have become the rift of flares in when that the not surrounds until the present room is raised to silken them all.

Like the you are in me, the I from our merciful games within, is us and otherness chained to the mind’s fate of an old world.

I am a landscape made of a still beautifying degree of diversion coming from this farther vegetation I find in analogues of reflection.

An unknown plant carries great ripples if I am folding the elsewhere travels of visible scatters that touches me in its modesties of rainbow water.

My reality is born of words from those remains where handshakes flesh are hiding them to disappear in contradictions of a vast sky from the appearing veins and shivers as we reaches daylight no were near this creatures of illusion.

A jars dream in lost white with flesh and morning olds falling dark sky whimsies, fading the dawn on me in a taste of barebone whisperings thin little closed quarters.

Plausible eyes of impalpable senses throws my eternal seductive forms of wilderness to me by swimming words.
They are the deserted side of my blood.

The distant embroidering of sounds wandering where unclear silence farms my echoes of beyond.
Its a dizziness in moving.

The amorous smile of your silently violent, yet scattering joy of a were, is cascading all acts without the madly confronted tearing of ferocious flowers that are heated by my halfway devil waters.

Filled with things that fly on its own when this breeze with fingers bowed to tired breaths emitting pillows of bleary words with fog in them from the bathed mouths of men.
It turned my mind green.
Its not to my pleasure to go sleeping this stupefied.

The dance in this light wise bazaar sings all evening’s descends as a dear black cloak shivering the red life of your lie, and the do so of your old vessels graceful searching.
I am in the land of bare feet and ghosts riding on mosquitoes.

The rhythm of my symbolic garments icy sky snakes minerals suffering an endless insensible desert dance obedient to the eyes of polished grace and a precious light.

We, from the have of chimeric painted finds in constellated promises, where hearts move to the magnetic sight of skin eldorados. Here, the old ones leaves us with histories soothing us a vast wild on imagination.
Perhaps we are left behind as voyagers on dangerous clouds.

Change is an account of hours, not steps, made as you do return them.
It may have you for want in the pamphlets of boredom replaced by you. They are not reasonable.
And your distributed willing no longer know you there.

Noon my dims mystic hymn, and slave that servants living eyes in a mesmerizing dawn, as they set my pass, and cast a diamond light awakening the stars.

Occurring to the now, that one presence that surrounds the imaginary fusions i swarm you with, is in here. In a dark rift where idleness is reality.

In here there is a dwindling scent of that profound pervasiveness echoes gather in all senses as a multitude of chance masquerading everything that enters as infinite nature.

Sure, that luminous suffering window of black gestures is bending an
ocean of what i am.
It is perhaps a story across matter.
Unmade of what have been to that of fate from inside the nothing behind myself.

The streets are my servants fury into things
Of lonely words redoubled, in all evaporated findings I enter and dream
It is a cruel nurturing fate of crops into the palaces of when

Plunging into each of that in ourselves, it thuds.
A log of yesterdays horrors air
It will ice my shadows and crash me
Into that gone relentless battering polarity
Like the surfy curtains of cold light making my senses useless

Our outworn throat whispers a verse done, echoing life from beneath that fragile and eternal variety as a child.

That me tears the land all made to bloom in comfort where time-glossed ornaments ships treasure lights through the skies bathed in the evening light.

My unknown slow repete do ascend to wings dissolved under an empty will of my calm giving abyss in all i see, grasping my suns.

Under your moon in the ancient cool twilight face of a child, you mirror all mornings faded stars.

I devour those delightful wind-tormented journey’s bowed to the sweet evening howl in dedicated doorways, lived to pleasure the settings of a tender gas-light hour.

We are breathing an image of water wrapped in the above with grim dogs, where a certain splendid angels mood was the only violent one, and also the joyfully cloudless heated breeze.

This lifes louder bottom vibrates in my bright subterranean reservoirs of matter where i hide the light i breathe in knots keeping an expression in forgotten eyes.

In living my own inner conduct with the sun of a magnetised obedient light burning on every road within rays sight, i am a servant on autoplay.

All I am to a whom of things.
I, who is not to be granted my solitude without a human face of inferior silence.
It is behind the here my dignity dance at will and the barricades restores our theatrical cravings.

Verses of vain twilight gardens in beating gutters passes the attic’s childlike head in morning dreams near the horizons monotonous deep climbing sun while making palaces of raising stars on the chin of springtime.

The variety of my silent galleries beside that other earthly patient belief is like stillness analogues corresponding to the image of my vegetation in liquid forests.
Its an I settled in some possessed and rose-coloured hell.

Speed climates approaching my own being to make life of the underneath a wrapped white bottom offence and making any hesitation float in me unarmed to the wearing of animated bubbles.

Like daylight shine bewitching you from the living snare as servitor not soul, lulled in a slumber to lift a weight so heavy from picks and drills.
This ornament of myself have loveliness reversed with fitting pictures and naive simplicity displayed in truths of old.