Splashed Perseids, his eyes cleared sea clouds Shelter summit. He gave me guts and the summit of Etna. No sails, no wind. Lit up the island in August. For P.
light April is not Easter or gipsies in the windows. It is light red carnations cheeks mouth raves. Untied
hugs among plants, hydrangeas and roses in the floor against the wrought iron fence. Mating of caged animals in the scent of jasmine gently pushed me from the pots and the arrow (oohhhh, bolt to sing) in the silence ... Insights into the light, serenity that encourages the desecration of the hooded agony.
Surrounded geraniums.
The light turns petals, the stones become petals, houses, sky, your lips, your cock, the air ... Your saliva becomes petal. Vertigo on the balcony, angry crowd. Abandonment of bare legs in the sun.