Aerial empire of the spring leaves, transparent wings of a squadron of gales over the Crimson King. Blue velvet, white sweatpants, a dappled horse, a duck on a spit. Rain in the yard, lingonberry juice on the lip, a red speck on the knee. Semolina quietly spreads across the gray wall. In an unbreakable union apple spheres with tears of the precious infante.
The dove berries of anger, red berries of speech, vine tears of mine, blue meat in the sand. Ice ax in the skull as an arrow to south, delicate, grassy braids on the ground. When a train falls from a bridge no flash is needed while you are in the fiery glow of an explosion.
Like all children who survived in the pandemic of detest, I do not digest whole love. Healthy, rude, sincere like oatmeal for breakfast. Bright, clean, splashing with emotions like a split orange. Only the sick, weakened, hunted, scared, interrupted by outbreaks of aggression and alienation. Pasteurized. With a flavor “happiness” identical to natural one.
Life evaporates, the cup of darkness and freedom holds the light, the smell of Keats's fresh branches, the new unmanifestation of pristine chaos, fills with anger and pus. Think quietly, lie down as a calm faun, cover up with a prickly favela do not sleep.
Sand argues with blood in the lungs burnt clay is easier to break red and gray request to take home. "Yot" and "iodine" soar and sing, the stopped Cocytus will spill out a salty sea, heal and weave with herbs.
Thou fallest by the domino effect. Deeply closed life unfolds outwardly on the spearhead principle. Procreation of the world from Mark to the Yam Suf. A poet devoured during the Siege dreams of concurrent, single Last Judgment.
I like to examine for imperfections the so called normal reality I saw my life in a stranger's face It was mine Some other breath, some other life Death is indivisible I'm still breathing Guide to reality
Humans, cats, birds, dogs, Constraints of big cities. Blue-eyed lion looks at the water - thin curls are between coarse hair and mane. The blood, the juice, the stars, the point of fate, the absolute zero inside of me.
The forest flame, summon my animals home. Roaring fire, tell: return back, into the cool of spruce water. Beasts do not run from you, you do not leave a chance for resistance of muscles, skin, bones, ashes and air.
By conjugation, interfacing, tense inclination, worship the fisher of men catches the black seas of space into the golden net, heals by the salty sea of thoughts and feelings. To trip out as an owl, to drown with your head in the deep belfry.