If a dynamic impertinence impels the greenery, than the sensation of flipping will pleat the damask. Rain’s illusionism circulates it. Your pamphlet makes nothing but sense. A stepladder walks the transformation to the end of the wharf and plummets into grammar. The strain of everything emerging brims with chiaroscuro and so confirms the enormity of Rembrandt.
A metaphor fulminates along the next line, this line, and enters the book in the form of a leg, my leg. I have four legs since blazing into conquest. My elevator embarks at dawn. Inventions tease the paint. A paraffin yardstick drips with sexual innuendo. I push it to the back where it educates a knob.
I have the duty to convulse with breakfast. This concerns simulacrams of space. The bikini burns quicker under the hive of antiquity than the oil of hereafter. The proverb has mentally adjusted itself to wax into gravity and assume the camaraderie of prose. The harmonica is an incarnation of rumor.
I am eager to equip our experience with bone. Black manipulates our summer fugue. I scrub the candlelight to believe in yellow. A wave is because fiddles are moonlight. The fat around the sweat of the world stirs with life as it slithers through space stealing glimpses of heaven.
We basket a Corot and split through the lobby. I rattle a spur and the grebes make echoes. I have greased this odor into dream. Religions smear my sand into a life of farming. I rock the garbage to jewel my concentration.
We stab the broken wind and grapple with rain. The mosaic butters its energy in an armchair designed to catch meditation. The brain beneath the drill sews ruffles into banging vermilion. A radical empiricism occurs with the percolation of morning at the forehead station. The train beneath my steering embodies a story of turbulence and spit.
The monotonous lamp is blackened by burning. I patch my ancestry and carry the spin past the resilience of history. There is an upheaval at the car wash. The nails snatch a door and grip a new frame. The flower is incidental to its seed.
Poke purpose and it will splash the orchard. I fall through a paradigm cooking rice on a blue fire. Your tongue is a blade. You cut the air and a sentence falls out. This is how we talk.
The wind grieves for the paint flaking from the barns of Montana. I happen to clapboard a house I imbue. A mountain circles its telling of rock and I believe it. The bitumen is new. I agree to haunt the abstraction until it projects an airport.
The gulls are funny. They stab the sky to watch the sublime. I stiffen from what I feel is real and brood in cogitation near the trash bins. There is a description of boxing that has been sewn to a wedge of library storm. Some debris has been added to make the clouds look cut and bleeding.
I have dangled scrupulously above this paper causing words to come into being and be here and describe something, anything, a feeling or grosbeak. This spring I shake with papier collé. I stand on the locomotive and rub. Here I must excuse the trembling. We are all enigmas of insult and yearning sailing out of subtleties of gabardine and mind.