They harbor pearls,
orange sea snails, striped
sea snakes moving through
oozing puddles of luminous oil,
decadence.
In the wind, they stand up idols,
kinetic forms whose names are the
sounds produced by harnessing,
and they harbor no malice to living things,
but produce music to delight
any living being.
What to be sought?
What to be garnered?
Is there traffic under heavy gems,
nudes catapulting in bolts of opalescent
phlegm?
Perfect
Harmony
Loosed
Finely
Exacts
Connected
Thoughts.
My green eep, a leaf between the lips,
the rrrrnnnnn misu of the frustrate.
Hashoo
planet to warl,
good canta lope
them either heether
noo.
