Wednesday, June 3, 2015

Sometimes I Think of Growing Orchids

Sometimes I think of growing orchids in the rain. Knowledge oneself. The world is full of bananas like a dog. The allegory ate its own or not. I’m dry now. People sing and their ideas creak open like an old weathered epitome. Or present participle. Does reflection play in perception? Skin breaks and blood appears. Animals recognize my odor as a maieutic balloon in a comic strip. Twinkling cardboard thrills through my thumb. Be a form of secretion. I continue to combine makes the sound of sympathy. The words desire realm. The perfume of the harbor. I like to prolong muffins unofficially stippled. Warm farm tense like a truth or bar of soap. Humming a song of thread liberates vision. Vermillion murmurs it. I like to hang like an apple that the sublime structures as oars. Dangle snaps in a concertina. A bakery bakes and a construction charges work in the greenhouse it tries with play. Punches are the antibodies that circle like a suitcase. The conquest of story flows with erratic wrinkles. Development beams sheen. A mouth full of turmoil scours a yardstick the hive shows, and collides with hierarchy. This turns L’Estaque like a swollen atmosphere and resolves the issue of apples. And then I hear a pharmaceutical thread seethe penumbra and feel completely spread. Copper punches my belief in writing. Expansive battles and a cow jumps over the horses. A mourning perspective of sifted dynasties dares ripping. My statements are crawling is not the same as strolling and groaning and shoving and goes swimming anyway. Grass is the next thing I remember. By this I mean babble. Sparkling hands can read ice. I have to think about emotion. And dilation. I want to know more and yearn for interpretation. My moody contradictions, which are rectangular and round, bubble opinion. The insects scatter as the flower agrees to amuse us. The change is warm and correspondent. A cause of vividness. The intestines present cinnamon with enlistment. We choose our genre by what kind of train rumbles through. I climb a cry that trickles weight. A memory in rattan and asphalt steams like rain on glass. Baking is navigable abstraction. We feed the boat ripping the hull, but the expansion is clean. We push the bend into heft. I serve conversation a fire and argue the ground into sexual abandon. I assemble bits of truth whose words excite the imagery of insult. Bats dangle in a mouth of cabbage. Therefore we must avenge the zip codes, particularly as hot butter in an embarrassed world. The next time I will merely paint on the palette. Gravity’s spirit dances. The pool expands and becomes diplomatic and emotional. By that I mean talk. And crackling and idea. Opinions panic in bird jelly. Flying is not so flashy when it is written down as a length of mind about something. After getting dressed, clothing recoils into catwalks. The Möbius seashore fights to include bugs. This is a detail wearing a wall where I nudge punctuation out of a bag of genesis. I start various sensations and anticipate vapor. And so you see, I have a heavy fire to pack. Poetry is a morsel that mushrooms to the rock. I stand in my bones lamenting stationary. There is myriad enhancement in the smell of it which is slightly Etruscan. A mind and a shadow touch and rattle. Limestone gloves absorb the winter. Life is erratic. Am I a fiasco, or a United States of sunlight? How can I answer anything without a lobby? Gravity tastes like antifreeze. I open the door and there stands Pablo Picasso. And so you see a paragraph is a lake. Eyes are the hinges for the doors of the mind. But where is it? Where is my mind? I feel oceans in me. Opposites knotted in knots. My inner fire gives testimony to a dark genius named Convolvulus, Emperor of the Bindweeds.  I have maneuvered some symmetry for my desk of dirt, my window of rain, and play a cornet. The appeasement of a nerve feels heavenly. It gets up and walks to its appointment. The sky pummels causes entirely imagined as a tactic to worry. This makes it difficult to Bach. Drugs on exhibition walk on the wind. Ideas impelled by lightning. Despair comes furnished with intellect. I’m back at you with personality. The steam is flexed in a Martian’s ear. The vagina sits down and grins.

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