During the summer,
shining in my mouth,
the mirror you use
when you delete your names,
hard as dreams.
You will disappear to deny it.
I write a thesis on sneakiness
And thieving.
Time of molded bread,
famine dance.
In the background,
a man,
little fire of love.
You open the windows to me,
but shut up all the doors,
comment on my perfect blood.
During our mutual culture,
your flashlight sprouts at a time
strained power goes out.
Guns
in front of my text.
A leading word from you,
a call from your clouds,
would flood me,
dry in the valleys
without you.
Eating smiles,
You leave your central home without thought.
You do not need shoes.
The world is bearing your hardships,
with broken kingdoms flapping in the wind.
Your heart considers me,
My high gloss weeping and homey pleading,
And donates your medicinal attention
elsewhere.
My private demon is winning
My wine hazy spirit.
The sunset cools
on a small snowfall.
The shining light,
it’s always washed in bleach.
Endless beach,
tears.
Sometimes we cry for our own sake,
cold,
and there are no boxes to contain
our needy mouths.
We all have been an empty harvest.
We have not been sown.
It’s easy,
to breathe tears into the body,
eyes to see.
In the fireplace,
every representative of the land.
I write to her in autumn leaves.
“You left something in the alphabet. ”
I am busy at my roots.
I’m not my good, unclean self –
the sun’s desire,
by chance.
Shadow autumnal mysteries with me.
The leaves will make me.
At the sea level a polished ice.
Under it,
two polite humanoids that cannot pass,
Their painful courtesy increasing
against the cold crusted water.
I have the urge to cry.
I have for years.
The storm swirls deeply,
Blurring boundaries between
The dead and the sea.
The winter will sail
beyond borders and shore,
an elegant hole in the warm web of living.
For now,
nude humanoids,
Scratching at the well-kept surface
Of a national ice.
The tongue over the unfamiliar color pink.
Under the indulgent skin,
cunning.
The blister is open where the money is.
Lie down,
Removed from the vicissitude of skin.
The pit of mercy,
His own money,
Leaves her hungry.
A proud pit, a deep pit.
The development of such objects
Unbearable as it is unacceptable
He wanted his place,
His needs eternal,
And so he did something dark.
You will end up under my curves.
Your lips will manifest as stamps on my skin,
Your authority the book I read all day.
You peck at my boundaries,
mysterious weapon
of want and need,
Ascending from sin
To pure release.
The pure cleanliness of innocence,
Or the unclean marketplace desires?
To be friendly
or experienced?
Our sons come with the scope of power,
With the confidence of a multitude
fed on the milk of love
and grown in crocheted glimmer.
They will learn from a trick candle
How to live.
Our daughters?
They come with blood,
to give birth to thorns.
I remember your letter of gun metal,
How I read it between my ribs
Before I could stand to see it.
I was executed for the fifth time that day,
Convulsing in a pool of my own heart music,
Staccato on the antiseptic floor.
Control is between your thumbs.
Make your skin detectable.
Thank you.
One day it will be as a mirror.
If you are writing again,
use the electrical font.
Miniature Moon 