A suitcase packed with time pops open revealing carefully folded minutes, hours, seconds. Boxing ghosts in a mouth of beans. A misplaced autumn. The gallantry of syllables carrying an image of swans haunted by a sky of reckless silk.
I get dressed in a personality convulsing with shadows. The buttons are crickets. The pockets are mouths. The zipper is a chain reaction warming the umbilicus of night.
I am in love with the collar. It opens like a large and stately tomb to let my head through. It is the final point needed to win a sports match. The ground rumbles like a partita when the chestnuts hit my helmet. Gases are expelled from a volcanic vent. Pretty music in particular.
An ambushed ambiguity embodies a plaster disease. Let us call it tuna. Let us call it distance. Let us call it pain.
The physiology of phantoms distresses the sublimity of the potato. The blood of a thousand stomachs growls with the thunder of eggnog. There is a kind of cloth in the ghost of a thesis. A concertina murmuring a medicine of nocturnal detachment.
Buffalo wrinkles. The glow of optimism. A plywood eyebrow dried and waxed by an Egyptian lifeguard and a series of pulleys.
Nerves are minted by experience. Experience is minted by nerves. While wearing 18 pounds of cotton between hallelujahs in a sanctuary of sand.
Imagine a house full of anxious sparrows. Imagine a house full of paint. Imagine a house full of unanswered subpoenas. Imagine a house.
The recruitments have arrived. They say beauty is fleeting. They say beauty is a chimera. They say beauty is the smell of salmon. Totems in the mist.
The clarinet bends a sound into stone. A mutation in green dangling from a chiaroscuro arm.
Soap is manufactured. The caboose is jingled. Jingled because it is a caboose. Jingled because it is not soap. Jingled because it is a cocoon of alarming sentiments.
I have chiseled a sound of elevation and hold it in my hand. It is light as the sternum of a bat. I will endeavor to drive it around the room, wearing a scrupulously loud T-shirt baked in the weight of a fork.
I need to pump some gasoline into this limousine. This pair of gloves. This pot of glue. This tongue of derailment. This palette full of paint.
Can a hit song solve the enigma of wind? Can a language crackle with shadows on a glowing forehead?
Space exceeds the steeple by hugging a janitor. There is salvation in bas-relief. Opium in a field where the cylinders of desire drool the milk of subversion. Opinions thicken with exile.
There is a pyramid on Isidore Ducasse Street and a metaphor sweating fire behind these words.
Here is a book of gravitation for Baudelaire. It is more fulfilling than a stint in the army. It is a hammerhead nickel doing a handstand on a gantry.
It is a body of bone and cartilage crawling toward an overture of bullets. Knives of unuttered sound.
And the prospect of birds.
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