Murphy said he was a naught, spilled the pink nail. snails said naught was a trail, of a cloud veil, in the mighty lyric, of a Sodom riot!!!!

Curtain above hoping on an anarchy anchor, Murmur of cockatoos still, Pursuing withered frogs in a lake of utopia strike. Anchor is always above the water. One cockatoo still, Sings, Prays, Preys, Dilates, echoes, weeps.. Frogs are dying with a rhythm of dew breeze, Curtain is crystallized.

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In my wicked tent sound of pain; O, begotten stay still, Note of sarcasm with rabbits and yellow beak birds, Hives and milk intrusively howling. Food in a boredom of lucid; ‘I drank half of it’. And the tent scrolled up, Towards the instinct and syllables, Partial equipment of sucking wounded.

Verses from Rocks!!!

Knots and apples, in her jungle .. Me with sustainable feeling of horrid, Suit me with immaculate rebirth of scorned, Tantalise me with sunset bite of mesmerised, Fluid angel, Virtue dangle, Fusing, Along the skin crusts sustained poll, Vowing, Rising, Mistifying, Knots and apples in verve.

Sculpture.