Here

No body fully with atoms
Each atom and its shackles weave decrease,

Fires whine from the holes of the asses of girls who never tasted the sniffing of their first orgasm.

The sky vomits the rut of the Rebellion on the screws of silence
forcibly.

We dug a cave in the noon smoke of day without the stomach to.

Impotence infections prefer oral sex,
Vanishing,
crush like a crushed grape lying on a dark sperm bed,
Semen thrown by the gods in our faces, does not burn us or quench our thirst.
The gods also prefer oral sex while sitting on their mollusk thrones.
We are a little bothered by the friction of thorns of memory in the throat.
The thorns envelop the sadistic angel’s penis.

The whip falls
And the eyeliner of lips between the thighs, liquefied.
Pain is the pleasure, and the roar of the pleasure.
Berber is a shelter and the pain wears it in spite of the dust of lazy–– Boredom.
Play Destruction as a symphony of eternity,
The hermaphrodite, Earth, has the alienation of a crystal clitoris
and the vagina of the Earth swallows us towards the
renewable tunnel of fascism, and invocations for the empty spaces.
And I gasp to paint the walls within the crying of volcanoes of despair.
I’ve brutally weaved empty, wooden benches.
I‘m suckling from her legs. Her feeling the cruelty of memory of the braids of swarms of bedbugs.

When I emigrated to nowhere. While the seat was a tree absorbed by the echo of falling leaves.

How many crows abandoned his Castaway singing?

How many Funeral prayers turned into a trio sex party?

How many holes emerged from the black skies and hungry soldiers?

How much garbage flooded from it, the sweat of piousness and the mustiness of chastity?

How many prisoners penned on tribal tables leprosy criticism, with the lost prostate?

And so on

I'm biting the necks.

And so on

Towards free grammar,

When the act becomes a prostitute squatting and opening her ass entering his head effectively.

And a bat absorbs the language like cement from her intestines,
I sing:

Grammar scholars are allies of Autocrats!

I ask and I answer
are you a drawer?
No, I'm a shark with a chameleon tongue.

You eat different colored meat?
No, I am the writer of the Gospel of the Wolves.

You will wipe clown powder from your face – the squirrel face?

I will wear shoes; in its heels the buried armies of flies.

Hey, you, speaker, I'll hide you under my armpit
in the Silo alienation, We will pass together
where sleep is an inexhaustible freedom, and sleep was never sold in Striptease theaters.

And now the baptism of death on my forehead becomes a wailing stud with holes:

The Golden Snake opens the concert with an oboe, crafted from the blood of Sisyphus and Jean Valjean.

Swordsmen of the lazy ones, come and the inaugural lawsuit
begins with a sonnet of :
(the Homeland with broken teeth)

Question: Are you killed?

Answer: I killed the Rumble of mute juice.

Question: have you practiced incest before?

Answer: I fucked the wisdom of the suckers, gentlemen.

Did you cut the wind’s feathers?

 Question: Did you cut the wind’s feathers?

Answer: no (and the no here means the sweat of yes)

The court ruled in absentia to end the ceremony and Burn the Gospels of the Wolves, and reproduce a breed of wolves with bat wings and empty pockets, just as my pockets.