Language In Any Language Poem by James McLain

Deeply so much very deeply.
Color of my sun, comes more quickly.
Salted palms,
sweating blood is my thickness,
your warning.
Your tap is like, white marble column.
Full brown bag, oily rag.
Pleasure;
of shooting deeply inside, feeding your cat.
Your language lites fire by my breeches.
Extinction of my imperishable,
wrongfully
detained 'During' all my, rest of your life.
Released, by 'l' my thickness of trees.
Only in your moist ground, it will develop.