Saturday, May 21, 2011

Euclid's Banana

Opium sparkles in the mythology of desire. Braque is a feeling to pour on the granite phonograph. Rattan has corners like glass. There are symptoms that hum and symptoms that melt. The bug is an abstraction.

Comfort is frequented all throughout the armchair. One day I hope to explain the sterling. The mint hawk abhors whispers. Sometimes it takes an allegory to generate enough pleasure to open consent. The late feather is accelerated by examination.

Our diversions but anguish the cloth. Mingle the ground in banished sod. Plant the willingness in Euclid’s banana. The puddle pales when the pavement vibrates. Form is a drink in the biography of sense.

Push volume gallop an ooze. Consider ovation with a baked eye. Be severe. Severity has a yellow sheen. Work presses the brain to cartwheels.

That hungry float can operate. The fingernail desk is not so intuitive. There is a drum twang to peg. It is effective to brush the tonic with stars. Expression honors the hibachi by touch.

Fall textures permeate dawn. May you comb the airport sweat by night. Get bold. Slam the resonance. Ascensions are made by propulsion.

Scratch with glue the embarked hawk until a syntax disturbs the ground in a caress event. When the mind is engaged it overrides garlic. There is a purple to inch from ovum. The engine is puzzled just by opposition.

The cloud is not done with its mosquitoes. The mind is sexual however lip. Cut rain falls fast. Just lifting the tread is enough to confirm the anguish of green. Stitch the mood to its experience.

The beard crackles in its ultimate parable. It takes more than a mosaic to wobble a lobster. The myriad air is eaten for its words. Work is glimpsed by timeless Parisians and this is done by crying. Whatever the plot indicates it is not a hat.

The stove is explained by its transformation. Hold the ravenous sense between the propane and the boat. Sag the pin swan then. Trickle it stirring a puff of landscape. The guitar is being a guitar.

Drill a harmony with sticks. It is congenial to think a beginning is trapped in cuticles. Harness the mirror to virtue. Fiction ripped from a dive. Crimson lake enameled like a knife.

It is prodigal to crawl into the greenery. Start crackling at your piano. Toss your destiny into the lightning. A word perceives more than it represents. Tin secretes nothing without orange.

The sidewalk mud is clumsy in itself. The oboe explodes from a throat. Baudelaire is a device alive to a strain of bicycle paint. France is tilted between its pipes. A pulley holds the ground up from the horizon.

Wisdom is unpredictable, a scratch thing. A flip sleeve it hisses to absence. The steam under the fireworks is long. Hot was a passing cod, and then everything turned dots. A circle in which description unfolds.

I can’t tell you how to live. But I can tell you how to do the locomotive. The amusement of it is in the valance. Indulge the infinite. The harmonica is a resource that cannot be helped by gasoline.

4 comments:

David Grove said...

I'd say that I enjoy "this kind of writing" very much had I read anything like it. But I've never read anything quite like it. It's really different.

The higher the lunula--that rising sun--the less intuitive the fingernail desk is.

I wouldn't dream of putting gasoline in a harmonica, but how about a piano? Like a car, it has pedals for your feet and is started with keys.

Euclid's banana looks better now than it did on the cover of The Velvet Underground & Nico. It used to be bruised like the arm of a heroin addict. Those unsightly black blotches are gone.

John Olson said...

Thanks, David. Are you familiar with Gertrude Stein's Geography And Plays? It was a big influence. I would use rubbing alcohol for the piano. But only if it has a 6-speed automatic transmission and the doors are covered in reindeer hide.

David Grove said...

I haven't read that book thoroughly. I guess there's a resemblance between "There is a purple to inch from ovum" and a line like "There are the saids to jelly," but I wouldn't have associated this piece with Stein unless you'd written something like "The guitar is being the guitar is being the guitar"--you know, an obviously parodic repetition. I should do something about my ignorance of Stein. Thanks for the tip.

John Olson said...

"There are the saids to jelly." Exactly! That's it. That's just the sort of thing I strive for. It is a form of verbal cubism. Different than surrealism.