An emotion floats and circulates the imposition of cloth. Baudelaire deduces a skunk. A bus station accommodates reading. If you slam this it is fast remembered as a capillary, like the odor of elephants in our dreams. Ugly oracles haunt the houses of Louisiana. And what this means is squirrels. A paradigm blisters with disagreement and flowers into gold. I feel thick and bubbly. Explanations secede from England where our screws sheer reflection, ear into a thin sound of thatch. Calculus spouts air at the garish antique. The forest grows still. We erect our bulb. Float over France because bronze is no beginning at all. Play is increasingly the glue excelling at adhesion. Sagacity and embroidery are the struts of which participles sputter stimulation. Words increase by grappling with ethics and sleight of hand. The day is teasing its frame and the story is in the bungalow. Growth is structural in our evolution but I touch the atmosphere and crack and my guitar makes sounds with nothing ecclesiastical for the crabs. I think my exasperation is catalogued as a lap dance that a subversive culture counsels by symbolism. My serape secludes its algebra in slosh pockets. Soap sips privacy from a Russian guide. Energy shines from matter, wampum like corduroy and glue. Clothing I hear comes from the sound of machinery and confusion clashes with the morality of size. The allegory cradles a newborn philosophy. Power is empty and when its power is truly powerful it springs into fabric like a kangaroo. I’m filled with premonition. The paragraph has given birth to a thermometer. Consciousness is brown, like the indifference of the dryer. The mountain is absorbed by punctuation even though singing had not yet been invented. What is truth? A sneeze spinning around like a flailing thought that verifies the naturalness of the chisel. We’re captivated by the new airplane. A few of us from the swamp are complemented by its unabashed flippancy. The grebe falls suddenly from the sky in undulations of grace. I need a copy of ears, a gentle rain that glides through consciousness while stirring the radio. Garnish crinkles cod as we crinkle science. Today is without precedent, a flicker of time permitted by the uncertainty principle. Meaning seeps through these words, and it’s irritating. Virtue is not always amiable. Sometimes a hat is necessary. Writing is always paper, the inertial mass of a single railroad car. I am a fold of night, a dream swimming with little rubbery outlines. I’m going to be happy when happiness becomes my clouds and powwows. I like emphasis and quitting. There is a dukedom in my head like an outdoor dining patio. Museums, theaters, fine dining and shopping. Let’s talk about seeing things and hose the culture down with sadness and vigor. It’s snowing in Asia. Therefore, a sequence of probabilities can be calculated by using the Schrödinger wave equation. Blood is awkward. Desire is French. Detachment expands the circle. An emotion wrinkles the paper and I juggle knives constructed out of words. I don’t know what to call this exercise in pepper. This fandango of slop. It’s a little ambiguous, but it’s also a living. What can I say? I feel things, and the mind is indigo.
The Technicolor Swan
1 day ago