Green how I want you green. Green wind. Green branches.
My head is full of fire and grief and my tongue runs wild, pierced with shards of glass.
The wounds were burning like suns at five in the afternoon, and the crowd broke the windows At five in the afternoon. Ah, that fatal five in the afternoon! It was five by all the clocks! It was five in the shade of the afternoon!
In the garden I will die. In the rosebush they will kill me.
To see you naked is to recall the Earth.
Besides black art, there is only automation and mechanization.