Alien Melodies

Butterflies in a parable do a loop around the word ‘spirit’ to demonstrate the swans of France. My lungs raise this image to sound in order to give it some semblance of substance. The facts that we experience appear varied, but they’re the same reality and everything is established by means of dust. As for me, I like to ponder strawberries. The air walks into my lungs and comes back out as words. Each probe excites a representation of pumice. Even the sky supports a certain amount of pandemonium. A little paint helps create a sense of Spanish lingerie.

And in the case of qualities, when a quality is established, it is established in opposition to another. For example, a dance is different than an onion, although a church is identical to a football. And sometimes an onion is easily comparable to a ziganka. One time I slept in the seed of an Angel Trumpet for edification. I awoke feeling engorged and visible, though more like a trombone than a bassoon. Sleep is like that. It awakens us to foreign rhythms, alien melodies. I like to think of it as a way to adjust to the vagaries of pewter.

A tree exists, therefore, upon the opposition and unity of its parts. A gardenia is more like an archive. I feel it do handsprings among my buttons. I lift myself into resilience and construct an analogue to equilibrium. A fish scurries by dynastic as a knee. History widens to include a valley. A reality is that which creates a single system. The swan appears to ruminate within itself and the sign of the swan appears to grow from this conjunction of intellect and squeegee. This is because the feathers communicate a plausible calm. The music twists it into perfect justification.

There is a cure for remorse developed beneath the berries. I can’t say which berries, which is unfortunate, but since we’re talking remorse, the berries must be very red and exquisitely delicious. The tangle of thorns is to be expected. Such is life. The imponderable drills its way into a cafeteria and walks in supposition among the pies. Thus, we have modified the violin to inflate with hawthorn. There is a pocket whose meanings shine like the clouds on a sunny day, and it is in this pocket that I find sufficient change to buy anything I want in the metropolis of a toad. Whatever I swallow shatters like succotash in my stomach and turns to protein and carbohydrate. I emerge from this meal a new man. New in my jeans, new in my shirt, new in everything sans buttons, which are continuous and tutelary, and buttoned in sequence, which is beneficial and holy, and performed in secret by finger and thumb.