Monday, December 23, 2013

Whispered Bingo

The paint behind maturity is charming. They have alpaca beans here at the airport. We surge over a contraption of plywood and talk water as I juggle the words of an emphatic perspective involving glue and Pythagorean consonants. My entire slam stunned the workmen. I winced and gave a great groan as we spread our leather in a spring of expansion, which mollified the sculptors.
And now I must bump into another chronicle of beams and photogenic powder. An eye necessitates flutter, so we flutter. The music box sputters with sighs. We rival the crinkle of corners in a paper sack that jumps into sneers during a veer toward raw sienna. There is a treasure in all of us that tosses on the Mediterranean along with all of our parrots.
My walnut entertains revolt. A throat envies our roots in fingers. It rivers a burning confusion. The concertina navigates its urges there. I roll the equipment forward and travel to Norway where I plead for a conference of trees and plants.
The ceiling here is a color I have mapped by chewing gum and spitting it out at the local bazaar. I tend to unfold myself there and coolly argue prices with a sow and a lobster. I have sewn my absence from a cloth of acceptance. The oarlocks have approved my grab of the oars. I evergreen thunder in my coaxing corrugation.
The locals steal our greenery in excerpts, then bring it back as sandstone. The mind squirms without a propeller. I feel this so affectionately that I am focused and lyrical. My smell wheel creaks with iron. My address demonstrates an unfettered taste for whispered bingo.
Fabrication heals a great wound of oysters. The air ages in our hope. A bulb of snakes prophesies a philodendron’s grip on the earth of our tomfoolery. Club the science of bias sing the angles of tilt until it crackles and seams then hang it in a window for the light to filter and show us what an aura can do to an experience of denim. If you buy my narrative I will send you a signed volume of alarming doctrine.
Wait skidoodle until the clouds carry their own salvation. This above all know yourself and expect banging. The clay reveals a palpable ripple and it is brown to send a blue machine to a red toupee. We bleed pages at breakfast. The pronouns joke with fire.
Here is a rag of limestone forged in consciousness like a bank. Think of money as a procession of mists climbing a totem of lost horizons. We pass over Möbius, Alaska in a series of loops, splashing our map with arbitrary lines and emotions that grow into mountains. We push an open dribble. I quark I paint I pepper I teem with participles and sob.
I am sobbing, I am a sobbing fool for construction. I explode on impact. I pull a preposition and flip during my plunge into contemplation. A blood faith angel bubbles verbal paraphernalia. I believe it is a form of grammar that causes the sky to pin itself to the night and twinkle.
I scratch a friction inquiring it. I squirt a station forged in railroad milk. I cook, I skulk, I arrange what needs arranging and ride the rest to a maple tree plunged into being, the way wood does when it carries the wind on stilts. It is sublime to drool pencils. Working this struts your concern, I know, because your kerosene is burning the wick into a sweeping identification of mass.
Mass is energy when it assumes heft and purport. It is a device of two rings pivoted at right angles in a moving vessel. It is a door opening to a room of clocks and monsoons. It is complex as a piano and simple as a pin. It is this confusion distilling into a soft blue light of absolution. 

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