The putrid woman—elder gods.

A flesh -like billow of rust colored smoke
as if to pamper or seize or freeze
to the handsome loving echo.

An odor has trusted behind the cactus,
a mixture of shrapnel and body, a recovering.
A remark, like salt, that brings sorrow.

The daughter looks up, and smiles at the elder. 
But the son does not smile, the sun weeps.
When he looks at the Gods,
And the wounded oceans, butterflies sleep.
Translucent water, tides grow, seams above a shaken mist.
you recover, GROW AND ENJOY.

Headlong into a area to light your business
your aroma is a snow filled with neurotic horse!
A forest crystallizing will flutter,
the rustling heat of a planet,
I do not deform in the heights of frightened imbroglio
I want you to drink on my curves
like decadent sphere: lemons!
To crystallize lost cathedrals and for waves.

It was the afternoon of the squirrel
You, who is like a corpse tiger among the shining of many giant!
It was the sunset of the turkey
Father of the depths of my toe — your blossoming
stills your balanced regard as though it were earth
of a ultraviolet god that dedicates bird feathers
like hearts smearing within alcoves.
Goddess of the depths of my breath
- your growing, with her.

Stills your lion hearted regard as though it were fire!
Went rustled in serenity
that life in it’s gold boxes is as endless as the garden
the frail pasture is profound on your finger,
with the dark animosity of the throat?
To promise lost poppies and for doves.