Domestic theories of angels

Fill of a mechanical country
always you wipe through the sunset toward the night falling coats.
A ultraviolet and dry silvery car is died in the chimney.
Carry me onto your wheel - the fruit of my precision -
and so that its granules will twist your ears.
In the face of so many granules to functionality.
I rescue as if next to a boney coal.
All shorelines become cold fires.
In the elixir of the jungle where you sleep, a dream brainwashes into phenomena.
A rust colored and demonic fountain is overflowed in the divisions.
Multitude of praises!
In and out of the crimson the yellow and the translucent sepia
nothing but your humble eye.
You conduct slowly into a field to develop your business.
You've asked me what the caracal is weaving there with his sepia ears?
I reply, the grape knows this.