Steeped in Alias

I am steeped in alias. Veins inflated with pronouns. Identity is mostly steam from a boiling despair. My palette glitters with its toys. My swamp widens into exhortation. I dribble parables. The mouth is a house of malleable infantry. I carry a city of stentorian sounds.

Here comes a float heaving with pink. Take the moon elevator and strike the water. Grease happens when the engine is broken. Catch an airplane and prickle it into knobs. I write almond and cook it into fiddles. There is an oath that lifts it. And an oath that demands granite.  

I got spectrums. I got packages and mail. I got maturity and cream. We are together in this world. We are beyond recognition. We rattle and stomp. We summon angels and bounce.  

There is a tiger we sputter and a perception we wobble. We watch it progress into poetry and behave like a sky. Black makes it real and blue makes it feel. 

We manufacture what excites us. The heave of labor is built within the saw. Slide your ponder to the tip of the branch. Mushroom your flip into scent and sensation. It’s not a joke. Not entirely. Some of it is broth and some of it is both.  

We haul our hands by fingers. We navigate digits by fireworks and thought. We beg this emptiness to think. A spoon opens its energy and the road is suitably squeezed. War the genetic clench. Become a muscle in a Mediterranean garret. 

I seek the tolerance of dawn. Soap is for scrubbing the sun is for scrounging.  

Generate life by crashing into light. Diagnosis boils with the morality of the seashore, which is enhanced by cloth and amusement. Your cactus cuts please cut it out. The mirror is tangled in its own listening. Your face sounds irresistible. 

This is my wild cabbage buckle and this is my myriad minnow tilted into heresy. What bomb do I drop to see your spectral elegance? I bungled the hammer. Description is exasperating. We’ve picked the headland clean. There are only a few skates and speed bumps left to talk and catch the last light of the setting sun. Let us ruminate on pursuit.  On the pools and illusions as the dimming light sweetens the distance and ghosts tug at Cézanne. 

I am swollen now, and full of gnarled emotion. The garden path is teasing. But the gravity across an airplane accepts it to mirror the chrome.