Thursday, March 10, 2016

Shaken Shape of Midnight

Shaken shape of midnight. A hive broadcasts the room. It’s hard that our rattles are a piece of soap. The bruise is breathing in veins of rose to blue. I butter my resilience. Ointment is my prompt. Chemicals won’t blossom flipped in a mattress. Hallucinations huddle into what riveted depth. Trouble is an emotion so big it occurs orthogonal. Clay is a way to begin to shiver. An exhibition convinces drawing an ocean is abandoned by beads. Opinion incarnates a dump from candles. Clatter wears the eyes except sleep if a giant moody vapor becomes a flower and vagueness becomes an architecture. The motion authorizes rising green and the carving goes in air to lip into fights hanging by including bugs. My clothes are in a yell to hit a sternum. The rationalizations are like quarks in the intestine of a desire. I feel the need to knock on a mosquito with trees. The paradigm rattles a world the hunger turned bubbly with oaths. My appearance plunged in a bistro at simple needs. Definition has a magnetic old Cubist chair dreaming eyes of the morning. A crowd of words huddle at my window of rain. The appeasement of squeezing glides through thought. Wrap the pickle. I hear the sound of my life holding a kitchen sink. Locomotive groans under the weight of alchemy. Corot strains shrewdly to transcend the sky in crisis. I’m sanguine as pepper. I feel the silence of this abstract ice is correspondent to a tall pink tower if the paragraph throbs like a cherry in apprehension of itself. Implication is considered to become a waterfall. I continue to make the sound of sympathy on a harmonica. A hunchbacked goldfish is harnessed to these words. Silk is a word incarnate in the arabesques of a single blue orchid. The grebe falls suddenly and plunges into the water. The savor of mayonnaise is hypothetical with eggs. My cynicism crackles among my fingers. The silk of listening necessitates thought. Focus on a hit song and eternity will attract thinking. Pounce out when this occurs. I give my hat to the wet oddity pressing my pencil into description. This is called an iguana. Temptation tilts a fence. We live life differently in glory. Beyond the acceptance of compost is your opening the mouth into the invocation. Act softly if feeling gets naked. Things convey pummeling by form, and drills and cradles are a paradox. This is called brocade. Call it dissonance. Affirm this flare into yanking what this ancient garden produces in the sky. The distance provides enough theorem for the nerves to make pronouns. There is a sensation from the evocation of meaning that we recognize spreading in hypothesis. There are thumbs among the pages of metaphysics. We flourish in the prodigality of talk. We flutter in closets. We enrich our glasses with ugly towels. The phantoms crumble under the absorption and vault beside the driveway. Protein clenches our mohair. We walk in a cloud of butterflies. The sentence circles itself in cream. Birds are everything. I moo in phenomenon. I feel the ghost of a dream throwing a rivet up to the eyes in a wilderness of feeling. I heft it onto paper and ponder space, ripping feeling to shreds of Cézanne. Language is affectionately being alive to the splutter of stars.

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