NOV 1 11 11

I write with a sense of the unconscious
the ten fingers to play with pretty nimble on the alphabet
slowly write down the name, then write the number down and then write an autobiography
all was according to plan
all at once fiction to tell
not even feasible for the talk
at the beginning of a 1 11 11 looks beautiful figures who wanted to accompany love hearts for true love
but the poet did not quite understand the meaning of true love
1 3 5 23 - decode
all recorded and written within the meaning of the pujanggan
knows what he wants on display again after this
rain, angels, fairies, rainbows and the daughter of a dream
all so beautiful if you call it is I
but not this dirty blood might deserve
all so abstract as I know
palace of the king alone was no longer crowded with roses
now all turned into hell who picked up his people who carry knives
I thought all turned into a beautiful
apparently some who call me are parasites who slept with the thorns
sharp and piercing
felt that the tender
blood continued to trickle earth
dew no longer out
dry struggled in the desert
rabbit jump spears unsheathed
lying dead with his fist
grudge like reverb but the heart says otherwise
with an ugly face like santuni boy's cheerful
offers a shiny red apple, then you die!
but once again, my heart says otherwise
uncertainty continues to turn pink
I call november with 1 3 5 23
no longer be light.
I dunno, what next