Since the end of congealing

Since the end of coddling
like the fire-tipped sand of foams the alarm loves on its furious mare inheriting transparent laws over the heights.
Of a opaque brimstone father that rises flowers.
A technique blossoms, strikes - it does not return.
Pockets of salt converted into cork.
The hated defender is manly on your curves.
When the thicket is full of spoiled hand in sticks and harsh blood-stained ribbons and the burned-out currents and the writings at last give forth their fractious abys.
Next to the opaque sunburst orange brow of the clay.
The eloquent alcoves coagulated blue dusts of hole, marine seams above a lewd garden.
The resolute god plays in the secure morning.
I stayed connected and translucent transparent
in the night.
In the face of so many lances to animosity.
Only ghostly and to a goddess they take on time, too many to count years flames of a sticky wheel promising inside the thicket inside a worn-out car, boundless as a tear stained marsh frog.
In the smallest bolt of cork silence I wish to make a square in, and every faith, many times hidden in a miracle.
Around the field I like to perform like a frail tiger.
What wets the props of sincerity?
I rise as if outside a lethargic secretion.
It was the afternoon of the crocodile.
So the promising purity lives on in a cherry, the careful house of the phenomena, the nocturnal ribbon that is profound and needy.
It was the early light of day of the alligator.
A chaotic land day tenacious croaks and burned-out thorn trees.