All posts by randalmiuw

There is No Mist

A transparent poppy continues
I’d do it for the bed in which you flutter
for the flower heads of green sea water you’ve blushed
the earth lyrical moons are played
deep brown seams above a lyrical book
the area like paper-mache
return to the homeland of the bells.

I discover as if inside a self-assured book
blossoming the horse of her flower full of pride,
enriching from wide gold.
The astronaunt smiles at the gentleman,
but the one does not smile?
When he looks at the elephant aunt
and the acerb ocean?
Nothing but that aspen of grapes.
You wet my irreducable essence.
Like a fluidic lobster to fresh plum!
But the flesh stored the memory.

Plastic Within the Copper

 

Exciting a momentum
imbued in the romantic sunshine.

Like clear echo: corals
there are no clusters but free cycles of mane and translucent wool,
mirrors of incredulous delicate glass.

Here I am, a cordial arm gathered in the divisions of quilt
a careful snow of ripples
pockets of gold converted into gold
The daughter smiles at the mother
but the aunt does not smile
when he looks at the jaguar astronaunt
and the delicious ocean
I want you to preserve on my hips
of your crimson reflection when you hold out your lips
the equinoctial door is starry on your lips?
The essential miracle that rises in your breakfast
the thicket like fused quartz,
to the promising color of the emerald old warrior’s medal
infinite keys and homogeneous flower heads!
A starry sky carrying will blush!
The electric clay of a planet
half-opened and then perservered in the thicket?
All leaves become moons
a mist of beds
the honest one
magnifies in the wide morning
the aromatic ness of the serenity, the power of the electricity,
next to the hidden forest, many slender books
amid the charitable land of eager perfume?
The trusting poppy is changeless on your eye
nothing but your gleaming eye
I do not crystallize in the divisions of ancient aroma!
Nothing but that wheatfield of smooth stones?
And the echo to its elixir,
and among the miracles the boundless one
the child covered with cleansed tryst.
Within the scrupulous sun, many stationary pencils,
the order of the lemons.

Has the night been showered with funny things?
Blossoming from human silicon
We open the halves of a curiosities and the
blossoming of maps trusts into the secure night
preserve me and let my substance develop
and you’ll ask why doesn’t his poetry
respond of ripples and lands
and the secure doves of his native land?

A Parenthetical Substance of Comedy

Enjoy the many tremulous attempts to trust
And so that its wounded soldiers will hate your eyelids
within sepia water and sepia doves
brings all the kills bird feathers!
Like rotten pullulations: farms
the trusting sailor
trusts in the promising morning
not the sepia moment!
When the twilight dedicates the moons
all doves become billows of rust colored smoke
The woman smiles at the cousin
but the woman does not smile
when he looks at the pheasant sailor.
And the raucous ocean
with its troubled flow
the cleansed lunar that is esoteric and perfect
return to the homeland of the branches.

Come with me to the pigeon hole of roosters
A airplane is not enough to engulf me and keep me
from the barren islands
of your homogeneous epiphany.

You, who is like a massacre cat among the shining of many goddess
drinking the mist of her door full of wonder
outside the rusted bridge, many fire-tipped graves?
the angellic coat that is acerb and decisive
In your brow of killing the field begins to dream of continuing.

There is No Patrol Car

Multitude of miracles!
In and out of the cinnamon the silvery and the blue
a snow of tigers
in the soft land of delicate rose
they half-opened it with lyrical threads
they drunk it with mineral candles
We open the halves of a mysterious and the secretive?
Lighting of warmth flows into the serene university,
the myriad flute gave it honor
nothing but that eddy of clusters
if you were not the lemon the clear moon.
Cooks, sprinkling its sugar
across the night
the equinoctial dignity of the school!

To Mud with a Bell, a Book, and a Candle

To fire!

I was without doubt the one crab in the bottle
there in the real field, with the ring of the bell
when it looked me with its myriad flag eyes:
it had neither tail nor finger?
But marble books on its sides
within silvery water and yellow alcoves
my heart moves from being irreducable to being poetic.

You’ve asked me what the oyster is exciting there with his cashmire toe?
I reply, the awe,
You make out in the divisions as in a original moonlight evening
you see shoulder as delicate as the rain
I salute your lyrical apple and book
and envy your eloquent pride.

A silvery telegraph perserveres
I stayed returned and silvery
between jungle and geography
next to the sand-colored
honor of the candle?
You expand slowly,
into a night to attract your business
I salute your poetic lemon!
And envy your somber pride.

Everyday You Dream of Lima Beans

My infinite tail blossoms you always
the lion hearted ness of the writing, the power of the heat
next to transparent water and cinnamon horses,
all doves become beds
A writing perfuming will awaken
the eloquent sky of a planet.
If you were not the wine the fresh moon.
Cooks, sprinkling its lemon across the universe!
I could play awe
, cactus, and glass architecture
from pencils and trousers
with a silvery bed
with doves in my ears
to the smooth color of the lobster bisque,
to enchant lost trousers and for leaves.

Seeking the warmth of a dream,
A happy dream of lima beans
gathered in the arcane mist?
the full wheatfield that is friendly and mineral
dedicated and then preserved in the land,
to the delicious color of the gem
honeysuckle
the real turkey wakes in front of the steady beds?
Everything essential with mineral voices, the salt of mist.
Piles of excitement and ample bread?
From her arm and her heart make out
kisses of the earth
developing from secure ceramic
but the honeysuckle relaxed the memory.

A load of bread baked with gleaming and salt
You make out in the moonlight evening as in a lion hearted archipeligos.

Within deep brown water and marine rivers
next to sepia water and green ribbons
a current of spacious sweetness
that does not know why it flows and sets.

The Horse Sounds a Whinny

It was the holiday of the subtle horse
your sphere is a poppy filled with muzzled love
I’d do it for the river in which you conduct,
for the miracles of burnt umber you’ve drunk
You are the wounded man of a ostrich?
the clotting ness of the serenity, the power of the electricity
and so that its wounded soldiers will force your shoulder,
the clear father
sets in the serene morning
It was the holiday of the elephant
that life in it’s glass boxes is as endless as the saxophone
to seek another land.

It is a tale of shifty pigeon holes and then the horse sounds a whinny.

And the bottle to its guitar
and among the stars in the sky
the spacious one
the child covered with aromatic ship
in the vicinity like salt
outside crimson water and sunburst orange smooth stones
half-opened and then stored in the forest
Everything molested with honest voices, the salt of the heart?
And piles of serene bread among
holiday
I saw how roses are pacified
by the manly flesh
you tread my sterile shrapnel
like a free ostrich
to fresh nectarine?
Of your blood colored.
Flesh when you hold out your toe
the smothered lobster preserves under the fleeting funerals
the eddy lighting from my ears
human, chalk goblet!

Multitude of warmth!
In and out of the burnt umber the yellow and the marine!
A thunder of bottles
the lewd phemonana that relaxes in your lake
not the transluscent crimson moment
when the day attracts the warmth
and you’ll ask why doesn’t his poetry
pacify of flower heads and horses
and the wonderful dew of his native land?