Document d'Oiseaux: Document of Birds
The angel who entered the constellation Carp peered in the plum pith mirror and for the first time knew me. Adorned my hair with wheat flowers and ran away. A fish with a beautiful heart, when spring comes, steals the angel's costumes. This experiment is performed at my fingertip where a bud is about to spill over. In the glass waves groan, close. It was the first dinner born of the conversational instinct between the first snow on my fingernail and the cataract under my armpit. As my eyelashes are already dyed the color of evening sun, my angel walks away from a large fruit shop, almost formless. I deny this angel's profession. And just as I crack a doll, I cut this peachlike angel. He was an angel filled with bliss. There, a single pitiful green seashell explodes. I am a dangerous virgin. A rose that tempts me skillfully, however, is also no more than a flounder that swims eternally. Look at the pebblelike sun of pure yellow rising along my nape.
This is purely a virgin's imagination. Now I give feathers to all the birds that come through my gold earrings. I give all breezes the clothes on which stars fly. My miracle was to impregnate a cluster of heaven's diamonds. By the light of the class Pisces, the angel's shadow falls on me. His smile was truly a god's feat. His voice had the effect of a boundless fortress of an incomparably transparent cobweb. Already, however, his lips fossilize as they are, vermilion. Beautiful angel like the one family Felidae that has become nameless. I wish I could once again pass through thy soul of a crystalline wheat ear. I thank the granite that sends blood. A shower is the angel's assassin as much as a hydrangea express train. A virgin stung by a rainbow filled with sap is me. The eagle's core at last yearns for the angel's rosy hair. It is an ideal universal gravitation. The flowering of violets at the wavetips this year as well is its result to be feared. Every sea coast is almighty, and the pine trunk also conceives an Apollo. Look at the photograph of a guiltless demon in its marrow. It glitters more beautifully than a diamond. Angel. Dost thou know thy future by the neon ad under this pine bark? Corpse of the blue sky of the angel who has stretched his hands this way. The bird is amiable. His mother too is amiable. I who have conceived carry into the sea a bright candle along with delight. Is that poisonous to the class Aves? Nay, now is the season when all poisons become extinct. An esthetic iceberg too is in its child-bearing season. Even a single goldfish shines atop the wall of a fortress. A cigar burns on the supreme sea coast. It's a secret that that is a recent phenomenon in the aquarium. The air is a boneless beautiful princess. Inside a straw she is the Virgin Mary. In the PIAZZA of its throat, dropped a gem like a white rose. That white world was neither an island nor a bird. This sole memory will make me a devil. When morning comes all the angels rise from their beds. They again expose their eternal, immortal breasts. The morning wind was again refreshing to them.
Because I secretly saw God sculpturing a peach, I die. I am dead, holding a magnificent breast in my mouth, hugging a bouquet of skyblue roses. That's a fair, youthful adventure. By that a fly and a gem are not surprised. For the sea is no more than a new musical instrument. The lion of beautiful sound who harbingers spring was a perfect heavenly body, which was unable to distinguish a morning glory from a man, and which held overhead a cobalt parasol. This was a dramatic spectacle. Theater on the horizon. Outside are the four seasons, birds of love are warbling. Keep silent about the turning of a seal into a seven-string lyre. The shadowless sun is a yacht I get a ride on. I see a pure white divine horse bucking on the deck. See, in the document of birds, that a Muse is now putting her makeup on.
This is purely a virgin's imagination. Now I give feathers to all the birds that come through my gold earrings. I give all breezes the clothes on which stars fly. My miracle was to impregnate a cluster of heaven's diamonds. By the light of the class Pisces, the angel's shadow falls on me. His smile was truly a god's feat. His voice had the effect of a boundless fortress of an incomparably transparent cobweb. Already, however, his lips fossilize as they are, vermilion. Beautiful angel like the one family Felidae that has become nameless. I wish I could once again pass through thy soul of a crystalline wheat ear. I thank the granite that sends blood. A shower is the angel's assassin as much as a hydrangea express train. A virgin stung by a rainbow filled with sap is me. The eagle's core at last yearns for the angel's rosy hair. It is an ideal universal gravitation. The flowering of violets at the wavetips this year as well is its result to be feared. Every sea coast is almighty, and the pine trunk also conceives an Apollo. Look at the photograph of a guiltless demon in its marrow. It glitters more beautifully than a diamond. Angel. Dost thou know thy future by the neon ad under this pine bark? Corpse of the blue sky of the angel who has stretched his hands this way. The bird is amiable. His mother too is amiable. I who have conceived carry into the sea a bright candle along with delight. Is that poisonous to the class Aves? Nay, now is the season when all poisons become extinct. An esthetic iceberg too is in its child-bearing season. Even a single goldfish shines atop the wall of a fortress. A cigar burns on the supreme sea coast. It's a secret that that is a recent phenomenon in the aquarium. The air is a boneless beautiful princess. Inside a straw she is the Virgin Mary. In the PIAZZA of its throat, dropped a gem like a white rose. That white world was neither an island nor a bird. This sole memory will make me a devil. When morning comes all the angels rise from their beds. They again expose their eternal, immortal breasts. The morning wind was again refreshing to them.
Because I secretly saw God sculpturing a peach, I die. I am dead, holding a magnificent breast in my mouth, hugging a bouquet of skyblue roses. That's a fair, youthful adventure. By that a fly and a gem are not surprised. For the sea is no more than a new musical instrument. The lion of beautiful sound who harbingers spring was a perfect heavenly body, which was unable to distinguish a morning glory from a man, and which held overhead a cobalt parasol. This was a dramatic spectacle. Theater on the horizon. Outside are the four seasons, birds of love are warbling. Keep silent about the turning of a seal into a seven-string lyre. The shadowless sun is a yacht I get a ride on. I see a pure white divine horse bucking on the deck. See, in the document of birds, that a Muse is now putting her makeup on.
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