Inside the day, convulsions sweep me within the circular tide, whose currents endlessly root themselves along the shores of disappointing sentiments. Abandoning a singular precision, in using reverie with a blade to carve out the jewels with splendid contour, fashioned after the exquisite role of the past, I have failed to attract the elegant throats around which I stalk the beautiful endlessly.

I know of pink corners in the mind: Forest of sweet perfumes, whose travelers lend a hand to the ******* of sunset and its nervous mapping of amateur stars. There is a moment’s history in the certainty of salivating worlds: An odyssey for lovers who play cards at night and whose ideas for strategic foreplay are used like stilts. Hovering over a table, soaked with invisible juices, they are found flirting with each other’s secret personalities—heirs to the hormonal vibration of wet thoughts.

Every night I lay into a pink sleep, which is the secrecy of her arm’s love for me. There is a solace for me in her eyes… if only I could live in their reflections forever! A landscape of exploding glass-works, that trickle wet stories down her beloved face. Into my dreams, they will fire an inscription of dazzling intimacies, in soft-blue storms of light. I want to run away with her down private roads, that glisten with the unrest of heartbeats.

A certain romantic light plays with my senses the way liquid streets uproot steps random in their dances!
I love it when we smile in lamp-light seconds!
I can always desire you in temporary trances.
A poet at work is like when love strikes with lances!
You calm me in your green meadow romances.
I ask of you, introduce me to the fire of your glances.
At times I need to sleep with the integrity of historical stances.
I will remain myself however lonely in miles or milliseconds. To make a lover out of life is to ask the moon for a dance.
Whether or not she refuses I will continue to love our chances.

Listening to an enterprise of winds
Lacerate into the solemn will
Of a helpless town
Constructs a beggar from loose granite
Found in rain spots
Or an apology in my dreams

Leaving in its place
A dark vegetation that has softened
With the speed of hurricanes
And a mask left wet
Waiting for permanence
Took on a frozen grin
From the wicked plan of a boy
That now stands as king

I want to take you
Into the infant’s tower
Of purple evenings
and casual space

dancing held hands
out on terraces
of crystal vines
for a single face

and towns below
might see the steps
taken above on warm beats
in flooded minds

our thoughts will trample on air,
the senses clean tonight
with your soft feet
ornaments of this light

now take me into
days like night
where your heartbeats, can
now be my sight

let’s imagine summer girls in golden clothes
o how many of them dressed up like soft fires!
Black streets will melt under a trace of warm steps
While passersby offer sun-buttons and light-drenched smiles

Today, in lovely flames, many females now flooded
Celebrating in slow strides, the yellow-dances
Wandering aimlessly with wild winds in their hair,
A choir of sunbeams off their tongues flash the air
While, singing they begin a most tranquil street-fair

Along the pavement, still wet from her tears
I glide mouth open collecting these tiny spheres
A window open, while locks of hair part revealing a face
Pale!, with all the signs of a saddening race

Out-of-control pace I turn back just in that space
Of slippery steps which quicken the race
In consoling her, a lovely face!, if only
A spiral blue staircase would appear at the curtain-base

And I had begun to rustle through the papers of which I had been given but an hour ago by a young , teenage girl riding a bicycle in the style of anxious hurricanes screaming ‘want to hear some news? This news is not a noose! Then slowly take your hands off the ****** pew!’

She had indeed surprised me but I had gotten used to erratic weather and she was just another tornado under circumstances of a discreet charm.

I say discreet in its appropriate sense. For I’ve seen more peculiarities in the same people who probably would have searched for a more suitable term in their definition of absurdity.

Let’s begin with the forestry of intellect while pitching the mad tents!

While passing along a shiny strip made by the street glamour of cars, moving to the rhythms of wishes fashioning a most coveted secret.

I am content with an inner radiance showing her off in my thoughts. Down here the lights are an old girlfriend that remembered I like the flirting backbone of highways…

Two half-naked bodies whirling about in the streets. Our thoughts pillowed against soft winds that blow a friendly touch under our skin. To explore love with a stranger is not a sin save for those intentional grins. A shoulder of yours exposed in this light flashed against my eyes. Already a tender friendship with your body. Watching your eyes watch me watching us with calm degrees intending such. Your awkward smile is beautiful because it is sincere. A nervous breeze encircles our waist and words disguise a melody unchaste. To make a love out of meeting you is the same love preceding you each time an effort is made in completing two.

Love leaps
Like a leopard
Light
While through
Evening flight,

Four smooth
Shiny blonde paws
Leave
Sharp scratches
Now
Delicate scars
Across night’s soft stars!

Not only have I withdrawn into the depths of my imagination but have lingered there for some time now and results escape my consciousness like impatient fragments unprepared and dressed like foreign fire.

All stains will be misunderstood save those which design intuition upon our sleeves.

We must pay attention all over again!

My rebel heart style is with her
Like the rings that hug her pale-white modern fingers
She speaks an independent light-blue flare
A caring intelligence with personality rare

Her black sweater rip and so her smooth shoulders slip
Into the air where my senses flip
A design for soft plans on her neck
And soon levitate toward my favorite lips

Not only have I withdrawn into the depths of my imagination but have lingered there for some time now and results escape my consciousness like impatient fragments unprepared and dressed like foreign fire.

All stains will be misunderstood save those which design intuition upon our sleeves.

We must pay attention all over again!

Take yourself back to soft night-air perfumed necks. Once again, allow your thoughts to sculpt a hand of past flesh and stroke the palm of her history with you. O gentle jack-of-hearts backrub lover, you must dance the steps your true soul choreographs for you.

Let’s put an end to future ills with patience for this all too familiar unique smile of affairs. Where are you true love of mine a second time?

With gentle paws upon your heart landscape. The day must allow your conscience to paint like a fox. To love like brunette blades of hair reveal emotion. O precious style of moonlight lights up a secret drama.

There used to be a patio of
Splendid greens
A beautiful afternoon fragrant
In a glass of charming fluid
We wondered how the fruit of
Tasteless shadows could scream
An unforgettable song
We watched a blonde cackle
Reform the faith of ****** stars
From a roof-top, wondering
If we were wrong

Gigantic web of ceremonies
Capture all intrusions entering
This historic yard, except the
Murderer of this yellow wedding
He has asked to be here
And we have thus allowed
This person to behave under
The mark of a crescent-bedfellow

The moon his lover is drenched
In proud criminal glaze of evenings
And we have said our last good-byes

A waste of time
All other pursuits
Instead we’ll breathe divine
Bliss setting new romances loose

Every young lover will
Follow and spill the gorgeous standard
All over us a new ocean
Explode inside us ancient emotion!

Here we sit together in a park
Of splendid rumors
A dawn of turbulence bathed in
The glamorous shine of scandal
Yes indeed we have heard stories
Apart from each other we consider
A silent jewel to be an
Accomplice to the nature of
Ambiguity

You must think I disassemble my personality
To ****** a blue foam
A trickle fire erupting its
Blossom water on the edge
Of my nose
We have agreed to speak no longer
Of a cuddling electric sea friend
Unless we are under the fragile net
Of sleep draped with angelic murmur
Watching in ***** position I
Helped the sun turn our
Arrangement into attractive dust
Dust however will be left

Not to chase across infested
Roads
Yet counting how many particles
Explode the roofs off an
Unappreciative town
One by one and with all that
Is familiar with the multitude
Of destructive glory
Fashioning a farewell sigh and
Letting our hands tremble
Ten stories above our rhyme
We cursed the wind leaving
A mystery drowning

There are certain flowers
Pretty exquisite by your house
In your garden
Moonlight flowers
Lift their dancing slippers
Up from the soil
And like satin brushes
In these dazzled hours
Slowly paint your name in silver
Across tonight’s
Black and star-studded blouse

The place where one spends afternoons counseling a beguiled village on the depravity of their daydreams, a slow porcelain horse is trapped in its own celebratory air on the moment of its leap, over a fountain whose waters drench the rider’s proud eyes, and view of the whole spectacle.

While on a beach where
An elegant tribe of
Young ladies in tight
Lime-green dresses radiant dared
Bent over to kiss
And so destroyed a sandcastle hallucinated there!

A heated swell of perfume
Dripping from his lover’s cheek
Welcomes many more feelings to surrender
Than the windshield reveals now

Driving upon waterfall roads
Couples are seen as fashionable animals
While the starlet sisters giggle
Behind trees where winds sneak around
Carefully.

While the passengers slide upon each other’s laps, a ruffling of clothes is heard in a car nearby. The naivete of subtle experience may someday welcome someone to slip along the sweaty steps of pleasure-stained pools: The ****** Congregation, where the logistics of the court presume “Not Guilty” indefinitely. For temptation is more than desire in Vain, but human curiosity. We can only predict our immediate future and what certain components are to be gained up until a certain point. But new found treasures lie awaiting our innocent stumble, many instances where a courtship often leads to a garden of rose-colored garter belts. Which serve in replacement for telephone wire strung above homes whose tenants excitedly plan for the next affair.

There is no contentment in my life, save only those small fires that burn fantasies into my sleep. When I lay down immediate into my troubled rest or a nest of night-heartbeats, life fades away from the palace of my imaginings in life. There are worlds so obviously preferred here.

If so, then dream away dear mystic and feast on your sleep!

Lovely escape back into the silver satin folds of nocturnal slumber. My dazzling light-blue ocean rolls memories off the crest of sharp waves.

They just came off the carousel
And now they will roam and
Wander with blissful stares

I will soon join them, hoping
To find wild women and
Coconut lotions

We will be free, we’ll dance
And swim

They just came out of the water
And now they will journey
Into the night’s mystery

I will soon join them, excited
To discover new voices in
New places

We will be free, we’ll talk
To one another and share our
Lust for experience

They just came out of the
Woods and now they will
Sleep with their lovers, awaiting
The blink of dawn

Once ago a time perfect and not only mine but
ours! A love designing sublime rebellion shined!
Days when our kisses held the potential for
avalanches do you recall a faint trembling sign?

The years away from us but that integrity still
inside! A search for those who breathe romantic enterprise!
Nights when smiles meet in agreement toward
best planning the adventure in each other’s eyes!

You wanted to go far
You drove a silver car to mars
You’re just lucky there weren’t
No spies behind

I could appreciate her today. I had been watching those golden gestures compliment the frame of elegant houses. And for moments alone on a reflective sidewalk, I had forgotten what my face looked like. Yes, she was a whistler of pastel importance. A type of language only significant when the island pores of sensitive humans bleed open shamelessly and without counsel for their tears. The afternoons have a style all to their own, and I remember glass.

While on a beach, when she kissed me with the urgency of a sensitive poison, I could not help but scatter across the shore-lengths, the households of my heart, allowing room only for the remedy, I looked beyond her and forgot to make room for her smile, that went unnoticed fading as a shadow on my face.

Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?) Can you not wait until that one afternoon, when we will pounce upon the horizon, like cats in heat, and tear the sun apart limb from limb? We will leave its sensitive shine to sweat upon pathetic days no more! Yes, the evening is a villain I’m proud to call my friend. Her ways allow much more room in the playground for mischievous  lovers, than those dull afternoons spent thinking about breathing. Where is your cousin, my memory? She has served a type of convulsively appreciative use for my feelings and continues to parade around my daydream swing set. Nonetheless, she has always remained a spectral participant in my life, pregnant with regret, and punctures my comfortableness with the sweetest of stings, leaving a taste with me she knows I’ll never forget.

Inside the day, convulsions sweep me within the circular tide, whose currents endlessly root themselves along the shores of disappointing sentiments. Abandoning a singular precision, in using reverie with a blade to carve out the jewels with splendid contour, fashioned after the exquisite role of the past, I have failed to attract the elegant throats around which I stalk the beautiful endlessly.

I know of pink corners in the mind: Forest of sweet perfumes, whose travelers lend a hand to the ******* of sunset and its nervous mapping of amateur stars. There is a moment’s history in the certainty of salivating worlds: An odyssey for lovers who play cards at night and whose ideas for strategic foreplay are used like stilts. Hovering over a table, soaked with invisible juices, they are found flirting with each other’s secret personalities—heirs to the hormonal vibration of wet thoughts.

Every night I lay into a pink sleep, which is the secrecy of her arm’s love for me. There is a solace for me in her eyes… if only I could live in their reflections forever! A landscape of exploding glass-works, that trickle wet stories down her beloved face. Into my dreams, they will fire an inscription of dazzling intimacies, in soft-blue storms of light. I want to run away with her down private roads, that glisten with the unrest of heartbeats.

A sky invades itself the way lampshades collapse on their elegant red bulbs.
Lovely antique fabrics wrap themselves around heat-waves copulating with light.
The color of blood melts down a rose petal in celestial gardens.
A certain shade of burgundy supports a flower dive!
Liquid falls into the curtain folds of this cranberry swaying pageantry.

She ran with me toward the evening contained in one sapphire arena. Coliseum of death’s clamor! Instrument of dark war-cry mechanics…

Sudden panic among the gods allows certain neutral angels to fly over the spectators, landing on moisture-thoughts while clenching blue pistols.

“they’re only water-guns but what a flood we could have!” said one angel to another. They’ve been temporarily employed to keep close watch over the public’s fate.

Leopard ladies will soon often prance upon men whose hearts are held together by single straws, by which a fragile connection has been made. Their skintight vestments hug them more tightly than any lover would ever dare attempt. Such intimate efforts are not beyond them but have been made afraid of by wicked arm’s length faces, dotted by the scorn of wild races soon to be held in trance-ridden spaces.

I am part of a secret race of bedfellows who, while draped in the rose linen of sleep, lash out at the dawn, a suffering enterprise, with a multitude of blinks, signaling revenge to the moon, my ally, which in the sized light of the sun, we can no longer see, yet, waiting until it sneaks up on the horizon, like an uninvited guest, our dreams will conspire in unison, like an army of winged blades, decapitating it in its own shine, leaving its bleeding fluid to sweat upon a flower, we will let it put butterflies to sleep!

A certain romantic light plays with my senses the way liquid streets uproot steps random in their dances!
I love it when we smile in lamp-light seconds!
I can always desire you in temporary trances.
A poet at work is like when love strikes with lances!
You calm me in your green meadow romances.
I ask of you, introduce me to the fire of your glances.
At times I need to sleep with the integrity of historical stances.
I will remain myself however lonely in miles or milliseconds. To make a lover out of life is to ask the moon for a dance.
Whether or not she refuses I will continue to love our chances.

Not only have I withdrawn into the depths of my imagination but have lingered there for some time now and results escape my consciousness like impatient fragments unprepared and dressed like foreign fire.

All stains will be misunderstood save those which design intuition upon our sleeves.

We must pay attention all over again!

Take yourself back to soft night-air perfumed necks. Once again, allow your thoughts to sculpt a hand of past flesh and stroke the palm of her history with you. O gentle jack-of-hearts backrub lover, you must dance the steps your true soul choreographs for you.

Let’s put an end to future ills with patience for this all too familiar unique smile of affairs. Where are you true love of mine a second time?

With gentle paws upon your heart landscape. The day must allow your conscience to paint like a fox. To love like brunette blades of hair reveal emotion. O precious style of moonlight lights up a secret drama.

Spend time with me sister! The sister I know I don’t have, a confusing passenger in my mind, that continues to bleed upon the apple-peels in my daydreams, where has your real reason for being envisioned burrowed? Is it not beneath the coal-white heated sands of my misbehavior? Or in the convenient pleasures of misjudgment. Either way your whisper wasn’t loud enough for my distracted eyes, those mobile shells recording the affairs of a race in which I am far behind, far too interested in spying on the obvious I often rest.

To pursue an unnatural passion
more sacred to me than any other life lived
Is an adventure
Hung over the palace of desire like a dancer
Head thrown back
Like the slow flash of a jewel
Her limber body bent
Her waist hugged by voluptuous shadows
She almost dangles
Like *** the play of kittens clawing invisible velvet lovers
With one arm raised
Held within a hand of indifference to everything else
That which she imagines for herself and her beloved

Streaked by the hours of moonlight
She sweats upon a rooftop cradle
A slow showering of heated liberation
As I swing along the fragile nesting of ivory branches
Stretched under the magnificence of her stability

And let her mouth, that soft vessel
Divide the gentle tide with a smile
That casts upon the crest of evening water
Two halves of a seashell

And let our embrace, soften the cool air
That parades around us, shedding secrets from our hair
And let me hold that hand that trembles
When the evening undresses us
With a yellow wink

After having spoken awhile of the predatory smiles that wake her from the bottom of a cup in porcelain sleep, the polite guests that convinced her that they too be included in the tea games, played by a thousand gold lions that prance upon the wooden clocks in her dreams, ripping them to pieces and having let bled a spill of mechanical works with insane parts, furiously looking for the history in which they will piece themselves back together, I once again fell under the spell of this profession, trained in breaking glass.

I am part of a secret race of bedfellows who, while draped in the rose linen of sleep, lash out at the dawn, a suffering enterprise, with a multitude of blinks, signaling revenge to the moon, my ally, which in the sized light of the sun, we can no longer see, yet, waiting until it sneaks up on the horizon, like an uninvited guest, our dreams will conspire in unison, like an army of winged blades, decapitating it in its own shine, leaving its bleeding fluid to sweat upon a flower, we will let it put butterflies to sleep!

I could appreciate her today. I had been watching those golden gestures compliment the frame of elegant houses. And for moments alone on a reflective sidewalk, I had forgotten what my face looked like. Yes, she was a whistler of pastel importance. A type of language only significant when the island pores of sensitive humans bleed open shamelessly and without counsel for their tears. The afternoons have a style all to their own, and I remember glass.

I rise again
From rough American ashes of the past
Like a dark brown eagle
With eyes full of his loving blonde girlfriend
I strike slowly
Gathering the momentum of love
Through the satin country of my fantasies
Do I strike with new care?
Or finally slow explosion sparks illuminate the air
Lanterns of disgust
I whisper darts into them
And swing from wild branches into the cities
I pass by with ruby eyes
And smile at soon to be saturated citizens
The crowds sparkle because they’re in love with
Something before I got there
I’m lighting matches everywhere
Trying to start bonfires of awareness
And fierce love inspiration
While pointing out the most tender stars

Our country alive with tiger eyes
And swift yet sometimes slow
Gorgeous human behavior

Secret worship in the eyelashes
Empty mirrors those eyes?
Or are they full of beauty and personal religion?
A heart that beats fast religion for the visual
Slow explosion
Glamour rain
Falls with the radiance of jewels
Upon the eyes
The satin of sparks
And I worship with **** breathing
A soft devotion like this can distance the heart
But one’s beauty is one’s happiness and excitement
An excitement competing with the world
A world where few things dazzle us
And inspire us to push our appetites into
The velvet arms of dawn
Or maybe that’s just the opinion of our
Worshipper of wet skies

The waves created a lady for me to talk to
I told her about you
She rose out of the water like an ocean bride
Someone else’s though
Some lucky lesbian siren perhaps
Or Neptune’s discreet mistress
I don’t know
We met each other in midair
I slowly leapt off the edge of the balcony
Gliding towards her over the sand
She levitated a moment before meeting me halfway
A conversation of crystal sadness begins
I told her my name and she told me hers
Her name was Transparency Flower