Not at least an opsin separate climax,
Devouring a phantom walk especially,
Forty Orion belts cultivate her finding;
No articulations zig-zagging the fruit
Harrowed to a jaw-break, a quiet wind
Relapsing in butterworth train-stations,
She plucks simple; berry, amnesia, soot,
For a symbol, a quaint, queasy premiere
Not at least separate from her tautology.
Present decayed ignoble lipi,
Her frozen lover with a fetish for fragrance,
The wanton empire crumbled to a wrinkle
Worthy of masochist rot, a giggle,
Cries aloud upon arrival in hourglass jail-bars
Rippling secrets about death for others
Stuck in rhymes baptising hell for constancy;
The desk lamp is mimicked to garlic
As sour trumpets weaken the pointed grip.
The black reservoir, a rabbit\'s foot-cuffed web
Attracts visitors to swimming park changing rooms
Invalid without history\'s constructed depression,
Meanwhile the catalyst without a horn to spare
Transforms ecstasy from despair;
Tulips rose a weep for the woman within
The turned to detest retinal tomb;
Still reformations cloud the horizon,
Agonizing boredom to nuance without Beelzebub.
Foragers violate the last arch of colour
Handing out halos inimitable to voyage;
Suckling the vapour from prolonged bush fires
Firmaments chop square clothes for a saviour,
Mere burnt flesh, hurried to spectre,
The only sought ember for Eastern pyres
As vague as the last generated dream
As undeveloped as the empty-of-cream druid.
Typical bed wetters leaf undisturbed canopies.
Never quite menota, pop-sudden aurora
For the Duke\'s flame-induced chiavari coma,
Armies wait upon the glowing red edge
Snuffing to the pose of brittle amusements,
Poorly carved veins silhouette the ridge
With nominal bone, our courtesy certified
For the intermission of anglophilic sadism
Who tried but never quite died
Without the appearance of suitor torrents.