Tag Archives: poppy

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?

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
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?