John Wayne.

Sacred bastion of incest and vacant crawl in the city's black tacky.
Disgusted or manipulated fear of salt in the next room copper mountain.
Indifferent skins mourn the loss of the bullet.
Stray bullet.
Dynamic intergalactic horse.
Vultures, reptiles, desert cubs, all look at my defeat and laugh like hyenas.

This second battle is fleeting praise, an asylum mentor of weak workers.

Dance the sun by the protective mother.
Child dies by the undertaker father.

Cadaveric & mestizos.

Just as the moon dry.
Dry grass, the herb mint, mint in your body, I bleed.

The Misanthrope language of yesteryear is the shadow of the wake.

Sandstorms.

And the dragonflies in your revolver shot against me.
And I knew that death was yours.