I.
If it slots, generally three soldiers will allow it
and be seated to stare upon, shoes removed, the advantages
of falling in a circular motion. You were clean to begin with,
now prostrate, shivering the shrunken hymn.
I type drunk like a flapping curtain entertained by the wind
removing a pillow of bankrupt burgundy hair from the season.
This peace is, at least, flexible, much less stone than the amulet.
that’s the sting. Think piano, think no legs, think of
the sleazy eye contact it makes with the marble statue,
think of how many times you slept in it’s roofless mock.
Think of the short sighted mothers with architect lovers
who never miss the frame. You think you are gentle
but behind the winding motion you scored are the black twins still
deciphering the importance of the seating arrangements and
when milk is not foreign aid. barely look. suggest motion,
but barely look.

II.
This will be more of the queen’s money and less of the mosque
with the windows parched by violin regard. Gentlemen ago, all
of importance stopping to countenance mistress. I bring it back
to the first two syllables of the American accent, ‘ugh’ and ‘ew’
now we have sprung an axis that might be nominated to receive a
beating from an educated man. White gloves filled with salt
recur when horses are distressed, which brings me back nicely to
the church organ, the cobblestone and Mediterranean gate.
saunter; the unmarked graves.

III.
By being used to the supply of caricature, we can crash,
wilfully now, into the noise above us, for we’ve no use
of information, leaving that to the 160 locations we call
our children. It takes no shrine to fault the pages of history,
it takes not the second to see the hierarchy of fear amongst
metals, there are simply no smiles. I think I would neatly harvest
a point and say it better than the monstrous sea, which to be
honest, we barely trust to hide gunfire, opting instead for
the Atacama desert and it’s 100 modifications to the accordion.
Gallant, twice the murderer, once more the campaign manager
lacking the rights of 14th century clerics who’s only use for
the new york times was to feed the sphere sharpening the steps
of drunkenness.

I wrote these while watching three films by Sergei Paradjanov.
Which you can see for yourselves. (I don’t recommend)