My charge is being a horse. My hunger is nucleation. My drapery is a simple shout toward punctuation. My providence is a photogenic king deepened in ecstasy aboard a Greyhound destined for Tuscaloosa. I am the rascal that stipples in raw peppered light while falling forward toward a haunted thud of grammatical flies. I am a hill in a calendar for the year 1852.
Buffalo Bill discusses his comb with a mons pubis. The landscape is infinite in a flower. I fasten a pumpernickel across a flap of swollen scenery. Max Jacob manipulates clay around the cook. A book is born from his puffs of steam.
I am a monster so riotous in nouns that a blister haunts a delay in glass. I garden a Möbius star beside a surgical color and produce a whisper of sails by strumming a gas station flint.
I am a dimension tied together with string floating a lovely propane in a pool of musical wax.
I’m a phonograph playing a 45 so fractious that it seeps a glaze of rock mountain jelly. We watch the drums. My yearning pins a blaze to the wilderness. We lift endeavor along the middle groove and lean into barcaroles.
Riddles happen when glue happens. We scratch the skin to mark our talk.
Incense is what so gleefully incentivizes a hit song during dispatch that it crumples the fire in a grandfather clock. Sirens stretch exhibiting suction and ooze.
There is a pressure that grows around gravity and is called a vortex.
The concept of brightness eludes itself. My arm occurs and obscures a lobster I hold in orchidaceous emotion. There is a greenhouse where my rock emerges and pushes an array of potatoes up through the dirt of a thousand intentions and cuts the sky into pieces of time. I agree to the use of turpentine but pound the milk for a better performance. I don’t like to navigate unless I have wings, or at least a bone I can pull into music and sigh.