The Famine of Gaudier

Jittering, she positioned her breasts in such a way
I could not slick out breeze.
It was the delightful sonorous, a native melancholy
Wayward puppets, though easy enough, defend and teem.
The refurbishment of countries, a purple rock hollow, lonely,
As easy as a Palestinian dream.
Nothing said, not a lot to regain in a touch, too submissively
The silver chime brushes off dust in between, calculating its mean.
The diseased potentiality of genius, though I can't quite say,
Always remote, rotting posterity, too delicately disastrous
To be seen.
Washed up, an instinctual tutorial, deformed by a wrinkle
Cattling an utter about a cliff before sweetness buries.
The ready made drought of a drag queen, without fiddle,
Aching like the spring, a season's horde of vacillated berries.
It was only 3 months and the hoover evacuated moths in a spiral,
Without a mother of a shadow, electrifying mail in the seas.
Speaking up, as dreaded as chord mellowing forms from a girdle,
The day seethes dry as ice, losing fountain lollipops slipping over knees.
Shaking over, a Sun not quite blue, rather unvarnishing, hosting the great task to see all
As bright-less as gaps between knee caps, like cups of yellow ice caps, the last streams
To have been.
I
Patience as vile as the jester waking everyone up to a miserable dawn,
Ironmongers are equated fulgent without a twin.