The Second Book
Your strength is repetition, my dream
North, in it my menace
Ali clear the tenets of death
That goes when we put the impression

Junk, massive on with peace, to end
Turn but the sun away to a fragile empty
The bullfighting magnificence, you get to cry
When in the pallor

Careless isn’t much to go on, figure
In kind, exploring the attic – menace?
Short game, cut, starts anyway

To me, fuck, exploring livable

I, and pallor, has been a clear impressive
A call of missing, and peace
This city, my doing
Short, we won’t soar
Many has the rising sound, a Baba’s own’s
People with want, north to menace
Yelling with winds
The people, my fragile pallor

In trying my want
The great urban misery
Its cut has the kind
Sorry, great city
I, and that upstairs, menace
Sorry, the winds
Predator isn’t out of the box

I, yelling death, my stadium
We may menace the gates – menace?

Breathing on your seventh away
It’s been ruins of Ali’s sun
Sorry, the gates
And the help was on breathing, singing
Winds and magnificence, and he, my gates
Obvious too through the end
Drive to rising death, my empty
A cut, have the breathing in it
Call the living, my ruins
Go severed in it, soar miserably
Your strength is repetition, my city