Some cotton in my brain, I chase flicker of misery, Wired with nylon and rocks, I prey for a jinx stain. Still the flicker is remote, Mist of breeze skinless, My constrain vocal, Of a dark veiled anecdote. I caught the flicker in the eye, Of an inside dog And for a flick I read the story That is blooming every May. It's the cotton in the brain, That hits my eye a lot, I will be integrating with nylon and rocks, Just to dream and sustain. Into anther I will turn, For a spring or a two, Skin thirst I will dive Above and under the adjourn. For now only I am float, Of a death and life boat, To the walnuts I obey And to the deepest mote.

To the flesh of pores, To hoax punxies, To cut Inuits, To fur jinxes, To the doom; A prune.

Timber in my eye, Tear is inevitable, Heartbeat rhythm is.

In this time of Ignorance I Pray for eagles.

Cherry on a tree, Sunshine is protruding, Cigarette is burning.

To my father. It's been three years, and foggy sense has accepted peace, With aura of dead instinct entropy, That has placed in my heart viscous; Reversed darkness, Obsolete prayers, Wide open eye, Relatives in mess. Maybe another 12 months will understand astral moths.

I dream of kindness: Surface of a smile when dust polishes our palms, in a thunder breezing arms. Moths and flies have both wings but I dream of kindness ever more to shout in my own limbs.. Silhouette is a different form of shadow but I dream of kindness in a childish meadow.. Kindness struck my eyes when the light is dim and I dream of kidnness in my own rim.

Death is a sonnet, Viable sunrise in heaven net Of lyrics and pain, Alas no rhyme is a torment, Yet we strike ourselves with a soul stain.. Charcoal dot on a fingerprint route, Towards love and bliss, We cut our root , From any senses... For now only we are dead, Is it a sparkle? Where's my head? Someone's hit casual darkroom, Alas, dark matter is finally fed.

Love invention of a dun floating, is a sky space in barrels of rim. Last night toes have defeated fingers; consumption of fair manners. Darling is a reminiscence. Dreamt of cups filled up, with Love..

Pupating visible snowflakes I burst into your underskin, with pain in arms, I bleed through the vains of aftermidnight cigarette smoke, to choke on syllables you imprisoned, in my tounge; I am pupating.

It snows lucidity, prism feeling of an open wounded soul, grip of a sacred snowball that hits you sharply, falling, misfit of a virtue longing, through you, through the mundane ground, through the clown's tears...

Raindrop leaf, nightmare rim, alluding insomnia of crayon tin. Give inner sin to skin implied film. Climb. Reach the pit of crayon tin and make sure you don't hurt yourself by perversion steam. It's a relative sting of a pain swim.