I can’t get it out of my head, the funny blip blip blip of bubbles as words, and the way they create the opium of opinion. Is language a shadow of royalty? The stream made the drawing helpful and trumpets. The iron ovulates a bridge. But the rules are theoretical. Hence, the jungle perturbs. Does that mean that the women are bearing children, or have the prospects been pink and hovering over these words now for a beach? The scene is robust when it roars of time. This is an illusion among us, but an important one. The words which import meaning without flying continue to concentrate on dreams. What we get is forms of hyperbola. Miles Davis on a vocal cord. What be you to mutter mother-of-pearl? I am folded and loud by a cloud. A peak experience for the balustrade. May that fortitude couch this articulation in skin. It might need more vacuum. Follow the pink non-Euclidean marble, and live. How robust the first important kinds of instinct are! Such as were habits are now napkins. The geisha is audience enough at a hypothetical planet recompensed by solidity. Itches are to be derived from opening in water. To raise, to thump on a bayou, to jerk off in a lumberyard, to bandage the wound of melodies is meditational, isometric and planktonic, a sharp equivalence of dirt. Ivory when the day opens and the water chops. If the brain is shifted sideways can it find ablution? Yes, it can. But what can a pudding have for pine? For maple and space and maples in space? Algebra mimics the way space folds into billiards and penetrates phenomena. There are, in the illustrations of fauna, certain ordeals that the mouth follows with words. With pigments. With scripture and punctuation. Denim is a theory cut out of the bottom of a resource. But what is the bottom of anything? A red creature that frets over cocoons. A dime of rapids, a story beginning itself in convolutions of silk and gauze. I started elaborating the plot then obliterated the directions. I did this because lovers gossip about isotopes and sawdust and the general complexion of spit and its thin tiny holes which are (quite honestly) chipped when they pervade the isthmus of time that is the eighteenth century. It’s a little disaggregated, so I begin restoring it with a preface and a few wigs. Let me tell you, pulling a century into khaki is a lot of truffle. And yet it honors rhythms, which are basically swans, open and steel. Intention shapes purpose and materializes vowels, the billow of the pillow notwithstanding. Canvases of texture are preliminary groups. There is also steam, yes, but the hypothesis of steam, which is slightly less than steam, but more than cashmere, happened to find China increasingly crisp and was dismantled in a wave of slaps. There is a paragraph that breathes in waves loosely organized by pumpkin, and what we call an appliance, or tuba meat, is actually a form of conjugation. Contributions of money stamp the cities in too much of a hurry to paint. Although much of it inhabits tinfoil, which the banks all like, and plump themselves into palpability to show their approval. The throat is subterranean when its meaning emerges from whatever the lungs may pump up. Paris is a place that gives me a feeling. Berlin is more elegiac. You must excuse me now. I have a testicle to build. There is an eye that is happy to see the new crosswalk, and it is for that reason that I include strength in my wish list, and a grand piano. The pudding’s agreeable textures are preposterous biologies, and it becomes too cumbersome to bring into conversation. Albeit, I do have some time on my hands, and can’t get it off. If we think of language as a contrivance, the surface of anything is not so much a spectral beach as a figuration, an expanding invocation, and asks how many words are necessary to describe a convolution of sand. Think of dusk on a desk and the many emotions that result in temperature. Not even Romania can sew the varnish of these struggles with a needle of hills. I have observed the many minutes freshly brought from the store and noticed that there was a forward in the future of them rattling like a personality, a sweater more piquant than scenery. There was quince in the explosion, and hygiene in the mirror. Which is why I comb my hair with a polar bear and brush my teeth with conviction. The pleasure of it soon begins turning up in the sink, and I can see what it means to build an insect with the ten actions of a sinew and the click of being in the fat of function when metabolizing a Thursday. I want it that a hammer is velvet, and dance the blues away which is grapes. And this is how the heft becomes a haft, and the depth of things clatter into their holes, and incubate into meaning, which is admirable, and red.
The Technicolor Swan
1 day ago