Halibut Today with a Chance of Bubbles

A find sucks Scotland. I feel planets and scrub. The weather appears halibut. A steep relation chirps invisible black participles. Civilization’s stars exult in churning perspective. Severity is air and how it becomes spectral. Driving is diving is tears when there is sheer form and velocity hangs in the mind like a raw geometry of vapor. The Parisian snow articulates clothing. Parabolas of taproot attitude statements are singing and clouds are mouths of heavy ships and rope. There is a grease for the propeller and strolling and axles and subtleties of abstract garage. Words in a sentence protecting things like grammar and baptisms of combinatorial arms carrying popcorn and metaphors. I like your touch. I don’t mean to seek approval, but the elegance of your feeling is just like saws or powwows. Get wet in the city dude. I mean babble. Bubble. Click together like spatulas. Presence tastes of heat. Ice cubes melt into experience. Lucidity floats in my head like a world. Hospitable trapeze tubs for quitting bad habits and mitigating dye. The water is a dime that indulges the eyes in a parable of metal and little bronze hats for the elves. French ocher impact kings playing at a swamp. I want to know more about you. Can you send me your name, number, and a sample of your wings? I like being abstract, you know, and writing things that bare themselves with an automatic awkwardness. Language cuts the air and unfolds by finger and aching desire. Winter is everything cabbage. This is how we fold ourselves. Cogitation is just a fancy word for consciousness. Description prowls behind the painting in blue tennis shoes and eight years in Ethiopia. Bob Dylan pays a visit. He’s old now. He owns his snakes and shivers from so much poetry that the beauty and grace of Italy compels my tongue to speak in time and twigs and arouses the good sense of fire when it’s sleeping to get up and walk around in a dusky migration of age and semantic mustard. Nothing pleases me more than knobs and a great many words so many words that silence eventually ensues and curtains and brushwork and incongruity. Can you imitate a box? All I need now is a little dynamite. All the letters do is excite my personality. But what can you do? If morning drops my heart I know the night will pick it up and carry it somewhere good.