This is your Contusion on Drugs

This is your contusion on drugs. The glue is worded. Tears fit the eager sorrow. A dream of earth makes our sleep sparkle. I enkindle a word behind the pearl earrings that dangle from the moon above the house. A totem stitched at midnight feathers into resource. I shadow the carp. I oblige the sidewalk to sob oceans of ablution. All of this is happening. All of this is fourth dimensional and hermetic and vertical. A little bit of it is also a little uncertain and some of it is bloated and testimonial. The words are spurred, exciting ideas of possession. This is my stick and this is my sparkly Pythagorean dime. This is the drawing of a snake and this is brimming with Germany. This is extruding an aristocratic corpse and this is unfettered by income. It goes on and on and on. I have pulp and pubic hair. I’ve had these things for a long time and the day will come when the bank will accept my string and hold my account in ageless red dots. I will avenge the zip codes. I will accept winter. I will better appreciate darkness and sympathy and recognize adjectives for the trembling Fauve environments they truly are. Then I will be successful. I will expand into henna. Because the kitchen has volume and the war is over. This paragraph must be described as a shop smelling of Shakespeare’s plays. One day is quite anonymous and another brings puddles and experience. One moment I’m cloth and the next moment I’m all horse and Bob Dylan. I tend to experience flowers differently than other mammals. I lift myself into my sweat and take a long sniff and before my tongue has shaped a word my hunger is aroused and the western horizon gathers into pockets and powerful green knobs that denote horsepower. The excitement is hectic. Please believe me when I say that my attitude toward money is less than ideal. I spend most of my time describing the indescribable. The computer helps. A little. Eventually a completely useless feeling comes along and protects me from the shapes of ambition. I hang my clothes in the closet like anyone else but when it comes to feeling the need to need I don’t need it to need me I simply need to need it when it needs me. That which is entirely fire is also orange. But hey. It’s nice and cool in the Abalone Lounge. There’s room for the dishes and one day the loopholes will close and our hands will feel the weight of the universe connecting us like skin, or something akin to skin, something jolly like mud or hypothesis. A mind, after all, is nothing less than the shadow of a sentence that hasn’t yet been written.