Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Metaphysical Dashboard Cackle

Let me make myself very clear. This is not just another argument with Pythagorean doors. The world isn’t numbers. The world is a blister on the dream of a filmstrip.

The imagery of fiction is squeezed from a gray exclamation point. If it has the pathos of olives and the clasp of a trunk, it will open its lid to subtleties of menstruation.

I can carry an experience to its fullest expression as an allegory. I can wrestle a parameter, or shoe a groundhog with sparkly C-clamps. But I cannot burn a kiss with bagpipes.

Always Cézanne. Cézanne is the palette where we find the right colors for osteopathic conjecture.

Sail the cause with its only hoe. The bruise is a mark that murmurs the same.

Twig everything the finger hawk may jerk. Respectable complex sandstone hats have the advantage here. Why? Because the ripple moves through vermilion buying warrant along the way. If you can twine a brain stem, you can flex a lung. Life is a parody of death.

Astronomy pressed its energy toward a galaxy of sloth.

The tiger is the same as Cubism.

You know this is true because its chatter has turned its back to desire.

A sticky barking sternum. You are your blast. Your atmosphere. Your rubbing alcohol. The soothed yellow sparrow that dipped its music in hell.

The jaw fondles the sonnet it initiates. The blaze is perceived as such. It comes as no surprise that abstractions are faster with chrome than chitchat.

Hit the sphere if you want your wash to come out pepper.

Arabesques predicated on the alarm system are now going crazy. I have an intuitive sense that hockey is a slippier game than we thought. Absence by staircase, elegance by shoal.

I agree. The lobster is ocher, not gawky, or gay. It is simply a lobster. Unrivalled in the tattoo department. Better than a snake. Pineapple snow or a flaming orthogonal limousine.

I wanted to say something about potter’s clay. But the sentence was too thick to write. It swarmed with cloth like a spark of insect milk.

Your physical clay is the science in your climb. So much reflection in your eyes that your vision treads asteroids of hurling fire. Deepens in pools of Beowulf green.

Everything culminates in blood. The oysters dispel the spoons, but the suspension thickens in indentation. Until finally it all makes sense. The world is a redeye on the emerald of a dashboard.

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