Diurnal

Angels of vein combat with owls
Tobacco prone skin
Full of brass and forlorn silver
On the sandfield
Nose fleeted
Penetrates
For prolonged scrolls of winter
Sandfeet whistle like celluloid
Black mud of eyeholes or holes in the eyes
Deaf my room
Mediaeval wings and ceramic
Zinc ash, clowns of wicked penis
Dialing the days for a commodore
A worm of camphor.. saliva screen..

Telecom

On my bones
Heaps of conjuring stomach
Leathers dead for dead of grains of dissection
All daggers melt down into ashes and blues of calender hue
My telephone chords
Freed beyond for
Flakes of doors in the sky

Radio Station

Getting loaded by the wheels
Fooh! Damn tails…oaf…doltish
No historian gives me a bark of wisdom
Black-eyed like engraving snakes on the majestic wall
Bubbled celluloid at least…..wrapped up with ferrous
Skin is zero for zero is stone…
Vestibules of tamed calendars…
Like a pre-historic bugle blows upon the afternoon
For the feathers and buffoons
Cryptic groaning all around my hollow shirt
Tobacco-fly inside the radio room
Winds of auction never leave this city of maroon highways…

Creak Chronicle

Nails obscure
Posters of tongue althrough
Black of bubbles

For pain for a methane devoid of shades and
Sound frivolous
Skindrop crystals can turn into spinal
Salt

Let's acquire stray moths on our shirt
Neons of sweat aloud
Anatomy totems all around my existence
Burning like hell....

Wrapped Up With Immense Midnight Repulsion

I gurgle with infringed colours,
Vowels of a shadowed pair of shoes..
My specs are getting old,my skin is zero for zero is mirror
Broken like a dangling staircase …
Gods of wicked penis moving in a chain
I keep on riding,riding for the jack,johon,brownboard jazz
I feel my nails are gone,teeth as well..
So as my skin,bones,hairs…
Father,shout I shout and zero numberless
To see from a crackling locus
I feel death is nothing for a man
Who can step ahead
Towards the bathroom for swimming ashes abundant....

Another vibrato..soundness I wish

Skinshot

There’s all skins are fluttering

I’ve made a number-plate towards the alluring ashes

My thick bones … no calendars to call her name …
Bubbles of ceramic sounds

Her constellations on her arms,
Moles and membranes on my shirt

As I’ve left the anatomy wool
And papers flying flying through the dark

All dodos are with me on a boat

Sunday dreams and a swirling hue
And the walking doors of a
Foul harpsichord

I’m a terrific ride with vanishing flakes and
Mosses…..