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Thirsting Hay to Spark
On ropes of splendid lights
Like eyes to eyes
Extended red tentacles
An octopus
Graceful
Like the spider.
Glides from turbulent ocean waves,
His pinging breaths
Pulsate in the vein
Rings
Like the bells
In the fog's memory.
Clearly obvious
weaves the storm
And the compass's tip directed eastward.
In its
fins' buzz
cracking in ringing things Holes
Its breaths,
Foam in a silver sea...
And in the choppy dust's tattoo
The street's whispering sticks
Like angelic fluff
In waves of sandalwood and lemon.
The ears prick,
The necks stretch
Slippery like water.
Their buzzing footsteps are coming
One after another
In a holy calm method
As if they're children
Returning from great sadness.
With no clear glance
Their eyes are cavernous like saucers.
And after bouts
From a long recurring common cold
They come,
An immense group of thirsting hay to spark.
Distances spread out
Debility awakes on its back
But,
They come
With dark eyes
Like holes in the ground.
Mouths
sadly, Tremble
Bundles of piled hunger
Life
slaughtered in meat
And bones dripping tears.
They carried the shadow,
Clattered,
In all directions.
Wracked all the hedges
And the distances blew out all the generations' candles.
The pain
In yet undiscovered meat.
And the strange sadness in it.
And over there
The dust rises
For settlement
Everywhere.
The men
Mechanics extended long
darkness In soft
Like glamour from the membrane
For the lustful ardent love
Covers a flash
Under a sensory seduction
Stuffed
In a knife
takes out the intestines
In enjoyment like the lust
And the civilization
In its crown's blood icicle
It lynches
In the light of day.
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