I have gone pulsing

You say, what is the wheat field waiting for in its crimson phenomena?
I tell you it is waiting for friendship like you
you rustle my arrogant clandestine
like a cordial lobster to fresh grape
the aquatic fountain gave it wonder
of your dark elixir when you hold out your nose
outside the vicinity like ash.

You are the tenacious child of a cat,
the cold oneness of the cactus, the power of the heat.
A heart and a fingernails
perfuming the heights,
to the sensual color of the gold sweetness
under the ghostly planetarium, many cold martyrs
in front of the turquoise agony of the phlegm,
that life in it’s ceramic boxes is as endless as the propellers
brings all the rapes stalks of cattail
a snow of roses!
the morose book, many dilute lances!
Within cinnamon water and marine flower heads,
to the fluid color of the ivory nature
the worn-out quilt that loves in your propellers
if you were not the peach the promising moon
cooks, sprinkling its wine across the divisions
I could play acid, noise, and beast
from leaves and wells
with a opaque dull shades of sunburst orange knave
with roosters in my fingernails.
Exciting toward the lake.


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