Thursday, June 11, 2015

Magnetic Morning of Eyes

Magnetic morning of eyes. Waves crowd the window of rain. The appeasement of squeezing glides through a detour of hunger. Wrap the pickle from the park. My life hangs from a kitchen sink. Wheels imitate the weight of transcendent glory. Colors of the sky crisis plunged in silence. The climate carves horror from the tall pink throbs of paragraph Notre Dame. Words incarnate noise luminous with eggs. The grebe falls listening to focus. Hit songs necessitate thought. Arabesques of secretion apprehensive of themselves. Hot diskus of gold. The sun is sanguine. Air bends with silk. When the river walks through a charm of flowers mahogany swarms with foreheads. Passion extends the invisible ear. Light and snow and paper in undulations of grace. I feel a hopping manipulation in my age. Crustaceans crowded with shapes. A pepper railroad trumpets endeavor at the house of engines. Indentation is about a daub of definition. Wrinkles on an apple. An apparition dipped in idea. Brain full of reason that also insists on shadows, the capacity to gaze and become a glissando. Rocks in my head. Ireland in syllables. Anything involving prepositions is Pythagorean. Even the birch is doing delicate things to the air. Meaning is an interior phenomenon. I listen to the velocity of variation. Proverbs of a box stirred with fireworks. Here is what I think of kelp I think it’s a sensation with heart and sparkle. The social being our colors wield. Whipped cream a map and a red mug as I go to the pump in the morning of delicate agreement. Spheres and keys define the jingle of mind. I boom a bug of needles, my perceptions of time notwithstanding. Fatalism mushrooms sag with imagination and its power to glow. I’m big with play. Let me punctuate the air with a house of language. And so I do and the gamble has camaraderie and is prodigal and kind. The prophecies of the alligator are a fog suckling a headlight. When we ride the green train a thumb of semantic treasure presses the cement. We like to think it’s alive. And it is. We walk in exhibition of our own abandonment and find that it helps to plant roses and boil. It takes time to salt the circulation. Start getting sexual when the fingers expand to include tubes of ceremony. Gargantuan pumpernickel cries of secretion tinged with sandstone spit. Eat the rain. Reflect a hedge. Burst a pencil with a sketch of knives. Magnetic morning of eyes puffing and shaking itself into words. Clap your hands. Submit a headlight. Lift your suitcase and go. Audacity is the power to chirp when the hermitage opens to gauze. If the hills have angels then there is divinity in embroidery and the air is secure in its processions of sound. Any day now could be a day of stains and pleasures. I’m at home in Italy. Blatant, blessed, and taffeta.

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