Sunday, January 20, 2013

Philosopher's Egg

We walk upright, our skin is naked and tender, our capacity for invention magnificent. Our sensations galvanize us into action, the depiction of animals of stunning grace, the murmur of subterranean rivers.  

A rag of infinity has been ripped from the wall of time and hangs here, a moon shadow trembling with claws. Picture this: strawberries sparkling with freshly fallen rain. It is a false image. It is the image of a pronoun stuffed with strawberry jam. Every time I push my mind to assemble these things with a set of words I feel like a washing machine grown arrogant with buttons and power.  

Can you believe everything I say? Anything at all that I say? Yes. Believe this. Believe that money is the fecal matter of the spiritually bankrupt. 

I believe that there are certain pains that glow like a whisper of crystal. And that the right combination of words will climb into the sun and become a giant cabbage running wild with colors and bombs.  

Emotion auctions the heart. It goes to the highest bidder, who is a woman of 40 from Beaumont, Texas. She takes a drug that causes silk and literature. One day she will be on television. Meanwhile, she is happy to flutter through the room like an insect with black shiny wings and nipples like dead violins. 

A Rembrandt brown walks across a canvas exasperated with bad jokes and convulses in the wind and rain. A swirl of universe sputters in the mouth like a mountain brook in love with communism. It says surrealism is alive to the unraveling of perspective. Well, I already knew that, but that’s ok. I still enjoyed writing it down.  

Words tremble with strange demands. They celebrate the spine of a divine scintillation. Their hallucinations seize the wind and fall into hypnogogic sensation. If anything of this is too vague, please let me know. Right now I am filling a void with the ageless exaltation of antelope bounding over the crest of a butte in Wyoming. Later I will set the oven for 350 degrees and slide a tray of lasagna in. All of this will later become apparent in emotion, sensation, and dreams, which are the alembic the alchemists called a philosopher’s egg.  

This was written in my sleep in the year 2013 using a bottle of perfume, a journey of universal connectivity, syllables secreted into a web of convulsive silk, and eight supple legs scampering about with an animal eye and a pound of sound condensed into teeth.

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