Land Balloonist

I don't wanna go like this,
reamed by sleeves and coins drop slips, permuted pages or something else
and all those crawling stupid sound passed the corner of the street, someone,
just like a perfect crowd, this

Breathe, just a drunken vibration
smooth  by the autumn tree,
loosen strip of solid

certitude on the wind, way to go,
this particle stolen from the outer world.

Just going to exist a universe for it,
some kind of verborragic
consumption or just a very short title
explanation,

a dragged skin, certain kind of it,
is this correct? Those mad shadows,
a foreign boat and it distant flags
on a distant shore.

The clouds, yes,
they're surely flaggin'
'round. By tomorrow, same time,
it'll all be some kind of expired expression,

different conclusions, it cries.

Sleeping every single day
in the countless late morning
while the fire
banged out a cup of coffee
'round some ten cold
finger nails on the street.

Must exist a world for it,
some kind of love or strange loneliness, the space between the eyes, a dragged skin
within the sound, waves or something else, fade.

A foreign boat
and it distant shore
right away sure, so sure in lips
crowded in red limiar strips of nowhere now
and the diving bell lost from a
pinch purple gray sunset ground,
then you can tell
it's dumb and it's quite serious and weird by the way wave stare your eyes
stuck on the flashing front side.

You can see me
staring all those things
actually written by telepathetic fingers
of yours tighten in my very own hands.

Right by my side
where it lies a suburban inconstant sad
madman blue sky keeper, and the always
ready flowers ride outside of the street.

Crisis adress the gods wrote on the backpaper
time, scrapped machine, man, they say, adept of something else besides
the yellow moon floating on shivering mines
they say, foaming against the clouds,
different conclusions and taken hands,

balloon man.