Classic Poem

A woman of pure intuition who storms into the guest room wet with sprays of a waterfall inside my golden fingernail. I do not ask whether or not a hunter had trampled into the diamond that gleamed on her finger. Her at once horizontal and vertical breasts are wrapped in a garment like a saturated scale. Of the natural disasters in a wax country, her thin moustache tells. She is moving on the back and the front, to the right and the left, of the lens of the lipstick that is burning time. Secrets of a personal pronoun. Senses of time. O a trace of time makes the hexahedral interior of my room transform violently like snow. A bed of light that generates in the sable fur that was slipped down. Her fainting has an eternal egg-shape. The beautiful game that confuses water and land will in a while draw near its denouement. A dry star will be raising a din on a breakfast plate. Marine elements and so forth will soon have crept into a bookshelf. Soon the sea consisting of three straight lines will rush in my palm. Her totality, like a dot on a die, turns sometimes white, sometimes purple. The copulation of the sky. The voice of a crab in a pupil, a rainbow in a cupboard. The mid section of her arm, that does not exist. She becomes eroded like Venus, for only one moment. She is heat in a hot wind, iron in the iron. But her song, which is the class Aves in the ash. Starfish flow in her capital. Her curves are leviathans. Her torso is a virgin plain of differences, a letter of flame where a tombstone of mercury becomes pregnant, it is a level of one bright noon a bright noon between the public hair as between clouds. Her hurricane. Her legend. Her nutriment. Her socks. Her corroboration. Her ovaries. Her sight. Her meaning. Her canine teeth. The advent of innumerable factual examples plays a coincidental game in an innocent display window that falls from the sky. Rainbow-hued sparks of corned beef. The public property right of a mirror of cheese. The death of a lady's hat. A swarm of Greek pantheons in bread. When a soul's fuss and noise dies, will all matter travel carrying a saturated briefcase — who can answer that? The scarlet star in her semen is insoluble. Just as a wind caught her green garment (which like an old miracle evokes my memory), space was a green flower. Her judgment leaves a time-like trace on my lips. Why was that love? When a Chinese with a green collar knocked on the door, a simply nameless ignorance pulled my fingers. Everything was flooding. Everything was singing. A supreme bliss was shining like noctilucae on used tea leaves of the untrodden land. ... ( sans date )