My residual birds residual words horses dangle from a dream of hills.
Maturity is a problem. Our descriptions are engorged with magic. I get crazy over sewing. If I see a needle I grab it and modify it and crawl toward a scent and twinkle. I like images. I do. Especially those that are dry as wool, or ooze from a line of poetry in which perspective is sticky and the bones concern themselves with bones and the gray thread mingles nicely with the debris toppling from the shelves.
Morality is congenial. It has to be. If morality were anything else it wouldn’t be morality it would be a thesis of butterflies provoking a sparkling nebula of belief.
But belief in what?
Fasten a spoon to your lip. The churchyard is sweet as a drug. Circles amble. Graves talk of malodorous shovels. This firmament this can of beans this biography feeding Braque.
We like to hoe gardens change our clothes and plunge into ourselves being personalities and such. The clarinet is physical. Then it becomes music, and awakens the grease of rumination. Picasso complains and paints, complains and paints. He answers the house with Euclid and ukulele. The ukulele twitches and convulses. Go. Rub a plasma TV.
Mohair happens. It just does. There is nothing else to add. Except concrete, after folding the world into a wilderness. There is grace in knowing nothing. The vagueness of clouds drifting, nouns of sand and water. A feeling awakens during sleep and the lake loses its footing. Clap it on and squeeze it. Sparkle like a suitcase. Slam the mailbox. Gravity is vertical as a wheel is round or an awning is yawning and space begs for objects to turn and ruffle in the wind.
My ghost clenches a shirt. Our thumbs are busy. I rise and bring you a napkin. Here. I need to hit this emotion with a roaring crowd. I can feel my symbols rattle and bend on the highway. The swans are hemmed in dark water. Raw sienna illusionism in a doctrine of snow. The snow falls on the hood of our car and we are imbued with the grace of dreaming it is the drapery of heaven.
I want to pull a large sentiment out of my throat and translate morning into an udder of milk. I grip my cells. My cells grip me. I don’t know the difference between a cell and a whisper mulled in wine. I squirm I wince I scream. There are planets in boxes. But we don’t know what a personality is. We just pepper our soup and hope for the best. The heart emphasizes its blood, and the root of being goes deep into hypothesis. The medicine is working. I wander reality in my Christmas opium.
I bewilder my food. The bulbs wiggle during an earthquake. The radio emanates weird sounds of anguish and concertina Paris. As there is harm done to one’s sense of propriety, there will be experiments in smell. Liniment pressed to the skin. The piano flares with music, an autonomy of sound indulged in red. The steak sizzles in the pan. The knife is sharp and the day is incendiary.
I stare at the stars and lift a sentence out of my brain. Its colors are strawberry and pink. I can feel the sugar of a running woman, a wound heal and grow into luxuries of thought. My plumes are diversions. There are oceans in our veins. Our ears are weird and explicit. We farm a convocation of eyes among the slithering snakes of an ancient philosophy. If a paragraph floats, allow a simple word to tug at a sentence and bring it aboard. The pulley squeaks. The engine is pure jello and spectral as a horse galloping in a corner of leaves. There are waves in our fingernails. We stand on deck and watch the grebes spin out from the cliffs. We glide along a deformed syntax of rock and the coal is dreaming in a hidden black heat. If this is considered thought, the examples of it are wrinkled. The signs crave attention. The wound of existence brings us instinct. We cram it with gasoline and rub the day into velvet.