It's mad...mad...maddest!
ten of those things frozen
along your image socket,
frayed, messy, dirty,
red skirting's of skin.
all glossed up in places,
in a grainy room,
upon a wooden floor,
like a door about
to burst open!
for rocks in their
molten socks,
trembling,
tip toeing,
keep going...
like a hungry hound,
with a heart nailed to
a door,
of a she conspiracy,
or the sun outside
bustling hot,
against magnified glass
bellowing everything up,
each little dark bristle,
at a time...
A Totem!
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I would like to translate this poem