When words speak of hello dried mice, in ecuadorian sugar-pots esplanade of darkness-come-hither, or my split-level fidget browns the bowl again. Three weeks in Texas shouldered an unburdened torrential gun to my mother's breast of fig-leaves, and lies in meadows, garden hoses of polite frost navigates the airwaves. my geese have bent their necks into the cloud of gasoline, you plundered a tranquil eye with no brain worth walking in, my blue bow-tie is inside your vagina, and your dick is in a parrot's cage, when 17 swallows sat on my shoulders I ran into a Brazilian smoke store, but the storekeeper was wearing your eyes and the floor became a boat.