Go ahead. Pepper the potato and sparkle. Let the kerosene slosh around in the can. The thermometer is compelling and voracious for oars. The temperatures this year are gloomy and mild, sliding through the veins like envy. I’m going to paint the kitchen sink and frame it in a galaxy of oak. The stabbed ghost of my childhood wanders in a herd of caribou. Even the paper upon which I write ejaculates words in the exigencies of the moment, which are uncannily public. Thereby I’m going to glue my throat to the river and speak in the language of bark. I’m going to accommodate beauty. We will boil cabbage and admire beautiful things. The bold suppleness of my passion fulminates in an agitated journey of hospitals and horseshoes. If I spend a dime and let it flourish like a dime and circulate like a dime the dime will return to me as a dime and shine like a dime and enter my pocket like a dime and slip like a dime and slide like a dime and drop like a dime.
Bend your thoughts to the infrared. Let conception sway in your brain. I will give you an odyssey of lobsters and elves. Deliver opinion to the hunger for cypress. Include the growth of crystal. There are arms for this. I love coffee and the color red. There’s a certain red that flutters its wings in an academy of black. The black of coffee. The black of night and angels and mirrors and meteors and messiahs. O spirit of paste allow me to embody cardboard in an ambience of pique. Let my tongue extend beyond the spoons of pleading. Let me explore the invisible. Let me wade through the surf singing of chivalry and formaldehyde.
My intestines operate according to the laws of digestion. This is proved by biochemistry. There’s a hammer in the lobster boat that will confirm the weight of my dreams. Increase your fingers with a smear of rose. The crabs are on strike. Heaven’s arms descend like steep cliffs. The highway twists over a geology of divine elocution. The road toward paradise crashes through the ribcage. Erupts from the throat in a blaze of glory. The development of history proves more and more apocalyptic. It’s easy to see where this is going. Picasso has splashed my words with the sexual fluids of his muse. You can see it in the glimmering of the mouth. The warm flailing of the tongue. The passion to explain the inexplicable.
Corot’s magic oars flourish beyond the compote. A wall of spices secures the vagaries of an ancient religion. A timeless anthology of whispers suits the grain of the table. We endure the persistence of hope. An antenna emerges from the great tugging body of expectation and wiggles around looking for scarabs. The groaning of pipes extrudes from a phonograph. I ponder nutmeg with an armload of clay to embolden my reckonings of fire. We like to wear bronze as we pour ourselves into our hands. Grammar parodies the gymnastics of thought. My acceptance of acupuncture arrives as a revelation. In the end it’s the suppleness of the ghosts in us that neutralize the pain of existence. The heart is sterling that weighs the dividends of desire.