Sometime, somewhere I will break
into many moons...

Your window
was very small...

This kitsch
makes you hollow...

He did not want to climb the spiral helix,
a son will be born without him...

In the stand-off
between stolen history...

Seizing a chance in
a trice, in one dark September...

Your unclaimers
will miss the date...

He did not want anything
after the sex and death of a protagonist...

Your body in mud pack
in line of fire...

A patch on my shirt
was growing...

Let it remain
ovarian pure. After strangulating...

Stammering quarrel
with classical fluidity...