To stand around with the lavender footprints of Artaud gives vibes of oxymoron signatures.

This is not going to let letters behind the paper house.

The closer he smiled the rock and film against its place in wrapping trees.

Assume gravity stains the morning like smoke lands the teething knowledge.

Where do kites that might dream collapse onto a painting from visible disbelief?

Doubtless blame rather than audience prevention by birds or milkbottles can maybe prevent his tongue from flower busting through streets.

The last dirigible is too big for the sky.

Circuses
shattered glass
with the chandelier
of your dying
instincts.

It is late.

We are in a room

together.

There is no way out.

Lust rages in

every corner.

A red light glows

and your

eyes steal my passion.

Passion deeper

than my

cock is yours.

I pour

a bottle of

red wine

on your breasts.

My desire

is your desire.

To lick

the wine

from your red

moist nipples.

It is late

and we have much

to do to each

other or we deep kiss

until morning

locked in each other’s

love sweat body.

I have no tokens

left to make you

cum but words

can burn

forever in the

lust drenched

memories

is this moment.

Please
the lovely
women where
the garden
of maddening
lilies uplifted.
Kisses and
laughter attend
to all my
blushing friends
in its wild
flutter. When
wandering and
pensive from
torment
my voice
is dying
to haunt the
dark earth
with roses
fresh from
beneath the
thyme. For me
to please you
more than
honey and more
than drifting snow
I will deepen
peeping lovers
and subtle nymphs.
Midnight of the
strange meadows
brings with my
desire the sacrifice
of rarest passion.
So when cryptic lovers
would persuade me
to touch the muses
I pray that yesterday
blew away the
awkward dreams.
Towering over my body
quivers music melting
divine embrace and
some exhausted words
will dazzle
my floating island.

Crooked and simple
have been wrongly

attributed to the
land of sunflower flute.

Scroll with writing
on unquiet mists are

all withered by
the dews of wine.

A ghost cried
about stories from

their love silks
between the clouds—

strangers together
will pluck wistaria

away from
the village serpents.

When dawn came home
to bed the world

rolled from the sky
swiftly daring moonlight

as painting silk.
Autobiographical juggler

as the magpie’s
of wine and laughing

gaze has never changed
from minding stubborn.

The old wanderer moors
his mistress behind

the apricot tree
and laughing companions

lie buried
beneath the river.

Across orchards
and brambles

until the shrine
of wine sits close

by the chance
that the sages are

all withered.
Candles forgotten

could only hope
for illumined conception

by exploits of
pearls and flesh.

Scatter evidence
of all the sorrows

that listening can evade.

Imperceptible signal
passed between the rooms
as if she saw
a visionary child
that had never guessed
at unaided revolution.
She became peaceful
in her manner
and she attended
the great swinging cypresses
where the smoke rose
into a momentous world.
After watching for
some canaries of
enviable flowers drooped
in their plumage
and that beneath
their stories were revelations
she had yet to want.
There was a pause
with her astonishing emotions
and so squeezing
her own amusement
in tangled books
with strangeness vacillating.
Waiting on the
edge of circus bandboxes
was to write a continued
starlight of obscure objects.
As she spoke she
exclaimed emphatically
about her undertaking
in questions like
grasping the orchestra
of friendship and
her voice quivered.