Monday, April 7, 2014

Anyone can be a Pulse

Anyone can be a pulse. But it takes gingham to be a chirp. Do not crinkle what is miscalculated.  Be lovely as those of Venus, jaguars moving chickens so that television equals the radius of green. This crush is got by grinding coffee. Drinking it is guided by its poetry. The disagreeable man is dirt not a dirty shirt. There is a shirt of true fiber in a teaspoon when columns of the garage include willow and singing is scanned as an analysis of bags. If there is flapping which reveals honor then labor is a prominence made thirsty by beginning a fern, nightclubs and noise. This rattles so nervously that a finger can curl around a hemisphere. There are thicknesses of maple and equanimities and birth. The clash of triangles is ablution, not exaltation. Wildcat that irritation to spring into fickle effectiveness and fit the escalator within. I feel spatial as a swamp the volume unbuttons. Profligate was long mentally. It pickles in brine, but is increasingly harmonic. Snake the drum and what cuticles amaze the fierce punch holds to a debt of straw. Duty propels a silk. The occurrence of drums warrants rhythm. The Rio Tinto zinc mines produce collar studs that the chair marries out of consciousness. Faucets arranged by engagement or marriage itself must therefore be correspondent to crows. The hem lobster spots over to deny its clatter. This is a previous arrangement that erupts into odor and combines occurrences of garlic by inspiration or sparks. Think of it as a joke doing edges. Or destiny tangential to a medicine indulging the air on a pretty red string of ocher. There is lyric strength to be got from the atmosphere if growling is erect. Within prophecies of Pythagorean money each cent is a thought pushed to hearing by those birds we call lips. An elbow there is what an arm exhibits. It includes four fingers and a thumb that anchors airports from bumps or puffs. Garments make me balloon. A banana that stoves its art is admired by contrasting its burners with raspberry. Each blaze in the hothouse is a siege of light flattering an orchid in love with its recklessness. There is an oboe to burn with a ghost and a parable earning a simulacrum of embryonic eyes. Imagine that. An engine to shake a machine into steam and its oh so thrilling rails. Let’s haul a word into language this summer. Suppose for an instant a banana begins arcing toward its own independence. Say it is hosted by Baudelaire and his fulfilling elevations. Forge a cocoon then unfetter its charm to oppose its accidents of royal regret. There is a stellar balloon to process this exclamation and diversion to make it churn. Dusty slither flutters the cap. Resilience has turned to fish. Unpredictable plunges bloom with lamp black duplications of easy incandescence. A pull from leather gets lingered in the sound it makes. The echo from the bite frequents these sounds all throughout an armchair. There is an overriding logic to this that forges respect from sticks. If garlic is squeezed from purple then orange is a very pink feeling. Hectic oysters built it. Indigo could leaven this gesture. Another might leaven corollary to the wash of spouts. It is an exercise in crying. Machines that pulse with description sprout from a neck of serious cotton to propose a tide pool with anemones and stars. More winter will rattle a liniment into lovely secretion. Everything lucid is the result of eczema. Poetry smeared on a microscope slide that generates Apollinaire. And hearts of gold should the map show fidelity and hammers complement its brooks. I am left to heft this hypothesis and frame it in pumice since solace cries to abolish winter and everything I know about Vermeer is chiseled in ice. 

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