Hl-dt-st-dvdram Gh40f

thick


not recognize the edge of poverty;

not interest me out of it,

reach the arena

aided by his own tears packaging dejected.

not recognize their lifeboats and their current

throwing rainbow as gospel songs

drowned forest of eucalyptus.

border do not recognize the kind of cracks

But if your teeth gnawed by solitude;

rarely

I went out of their customs remorse shadow of his family

gesture to applaud

crying or verse torn between dreams.

recognize when tomorrow is thrown between the pillow burning heat
And that raises the blood like a fire.

Outdoor, tangled power lines, a shoe
went crazy thinking about flying
but this was not bad, two doves nest
sensed it and now has three eggs in her heart. But there lungs

pessimistic
Days to thin to be just rain
And among these gadgets is
penalties where to look to the guitar he discovered
it was tree. However, there

clowns begging in red lights. Women with breast
surprised at the darkness
And nothing helps me extend my arms in the park that hummingbirds
cares for flowers
's no folding the years helped me to have your body
or hugging a dog like my son.
me nothing, now, tomorrow, citing smiles in the mirror:
the windows of my bedroom still the fate of a kidnapped
mineral and five in the afternoon I was still screaming in his twilight injured.

My eyes are always, to a time not wanting;
They in turn spun malnourished
A wheel smelling like cow milking,
hat, boots tired, the threshold waiting. I think I have

rags of time without darning
Cobweb-like sleep, Vagos
wires, decayed tissue,
And a body that always comes after hours. Hands

I tumble by between whistles in the dark,
That I live to build storms,
Let me crawl between homes plumbing and contrite
suicide often point bridges, Hearts Cracked
farewell notes drawn on
Or just, sad faces of hungry in the mornings shoemakers.

hallucination seems to inhabit a compass, I know
the management of hospitals where angels arrive
finish his face and wings wasted by smoke, full of children
Gerontological crumpled with sadness that in the womb
and decided to shut doors in their depression.

A siren alarm sometimes some
procession in my tears And fears that insist on writing on the walls help
Take me soon, so waiting for forever.

An occupation look then:
Sweep Sunday Silence Clean

But my arms are bent on making me a knot in the back.

I have not the address of each star
But if your nights awake * Ceiling.

Sometimes God shakes me some
A cry, a moon terrified:
the face of the world, his innocence asleep.

Then God and I left whistling
lullabies.