The Golden Age of Bronchitis

Pass me the color of her lips,
A buoyant luster,
Which seeps through dog fur,
And contains the essence of her smile.

Night will pass over,
And tomorrow with the Sun
A bouquet of cumulus,
Beckoning the birds.

At night my asthma
Starts to flare and trumpet,
Gaining great glory,
LSD hymns proceed
Out of the mouths of infants,

I circumvent capitalism,
With painted toads.

And does the moonlight
Destroys any hint of day,
My face hardens,
And you can no longer tell,
My heart from stone.

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