The Neck I Wear

The neck I wear is elemental in a cry of denial. Its sinew holds a luxury of sound to clash with the metal of the moon. It can wrestle a painting into salvation. Scratch a present incised with a phantom possibility.

Consider the head, of which it is the root.

Unfurl a flag of granite from the mouth.

Papier collé in the key of A. Balloons in diversion. An allegory unearthed in sipping the broth of a long black highway.

On a planet that impels the votaries of the valve to value the evacuations of the pump, the fat to get thin, the thin to get going, and the simply pink to stop stewing in the backseat of an imitation lump, it is often hard to tell the ooze from its throbbing, the birth from its stumbling, the mop from its mopping, the grump from his grumbling.

One must learn to taste infinity in marmalade, delft in a grain of sand.

Play with immigrant toys, wrap expectation in hope. Linger in baldness as a dimension of oval consciousness.

There is more canvas at war with wisdom than wisdom at war with passion. The stew overrides that history we groomed. Thermometers explode into oddities of Montmartre garlic.

Shout birds is the neck I wear.

There is an itch to the story that says the fat is quixotic and the chair is infinite and the cook is late. The railroad is scrupulous in its insinuation. Not a single river whose depth does not conceal a pronoun whose consciousness pulses with carousal.

The bicycle imposes its shape on the map. We study the oasis of mint in obscurity. Pull buffalo from the confusion of apples. Step backward into the tower to baffle the sparrows. Study the subtleties of bones. Exempt French from its pins and pragmatism.

Begin your travels with spectrums and growth. Hit the atmosphere with your decisions. Let your cotton steam in circulation. Circulate among the jackknives in gray.

Butter abhors initiation. The dusty slither flutters the cap. Resilience seems urged aloud by the emotions. A puddle from Rio Tinto secures mushrooms. The sideboard gape forks its singing to the inspection. We stitch our thoughts together in threads of thaumaturgic girth. The surface of the hoe requests a flocculent biology, something akin to phlox, or moccasin flower. The sweetness of a bower. The percolations of an hour.

Where some see dada, others see knives. Humor beginning just like oats. An umber throbbing on Braque. A geisha burning to stimulate a seaman. Raw sienna carrying a clumsy procession of gonadotropic golem. The debris of thought hammered into punctuation.

The paper imitates cake. The problem rattles into heft.

A necessary roughness circles the vowels and drinks their glow. Each space awakes a consonant and patterns a biography on the hunger of a taxi driver. Cut and haul the lip to the hibachi gun. Unearth sawdust. Hold the bistro in your mouth and pull on its wheels with autonomous clarinets. I need more heat, more smear, more fingers. Orthogonal fiduciary dabs in still multitude.

I need an empty monstrosity with which to develop an echo. I was lost and now I am found climbing a new aesthetic. Resistance is just a symptom. The epilogue alone is pretty and black. It is a farm baffled by its own fish.

An unpredictable plunge among abandoned cardboard reveals Texas in its straw. Everyone has a spouse. The emission shaped an answer, but we wore a different alfalfa, one that a turn to the right or left might exhibit as flyaway grass. Mahogany evinces an obvious camaraderie. The fatter string was exploded later. It revealed oak. And scratching and cinnamon. The world punch bag which is a story told in hallucination.

Intentions take horses because everything else just jangles. Emotion floods the eyeballs into morality. The explicit physiology of a violin. Simulacrums of glove hardened into boxing.

The drool dripped, and a fingernail emerged.

A thermometer churns in luminous flux. The house clasps its own design. The floorboards creak. The stars heave with eternity. We do plays. We give gifts. We dream and moan. Our solicitations sizzle, and darken into books.