Tuesday, April 5, 2016

If You Should Float into Sorrow

If you should float into sorrow I advise buying a dozen crickets and letting the details of the situation congeal into jackets. As soon as I finish sorting out these seeds I will adjust the chronology to the tugs of Puget Sound. It’s essentially a matter of going back and forth. It’s the waves that make it seem oracular. I’m bursting with envy for the life of a pirate. Though I’d prefer to be a flashlight. I can taste the sugar in the consonants. Let the traction of these words pull us closer to the urgency of syncopation. You know? Things like ribbon, watercolor, and grouse.
Fantasy is helped by steam. By that I mean weather. There’s a sip beyond the actuality of the spoon that hangs in splendor like a cherry. And by that I don’t mean just any appendectomy. I refer to the flickers of comprehension better understood as the gardenia. The paradox of light answers the sculpture with chaos. Sculpture is like that. It simultaneously explores and scratches at space. The aestheticism of the plough cuts the dirt into furrows and sod. There is no better way to explain magnetic flux density. There are luxuries involving latex, and some involving pixies. The appliances require a source of electricity. But not the pussy willow, or tax shelter. Those require hymns and fade-outs.
A little French polyphony reveals a gaping hunger. The day is sexual with description. There exists a feeling of interconnectedness that is granite in its broadcast, bronze in its campanile. My feathers change color above a certain temperature. I feel the pressure of a busy cafeteria. Everyone flourishes in an atmosphere with the clarity of bouillon. This is our moment together, you and I. This is our stab at bas-relief. Go. Embody calypso. The study of heels luxuriates in suspension. I feed the monsters of England with apples. I feel a little friction shimmer in the fathoms of my shoe and I dance across the room vibrating like a dildo.
Each thing that I do is a fantasy of collar studs and salt. Even the garret has become a garden of latitude and maps. If a spoon falls, it rings like a fact. Reflections caress my despair. Truth has the velocity of pain but none of the texture or color. I can make do without a hat but I sometimes require a semblance of cause and effect to make sense of cotton and charcoal. Life feels caustic without a choir. My hammer sits beside me peremptory and enduring. Can you hear it? The song is sad and luxuriously spherical. This bears some relevancy, because not all hammers sound alike. I’ve heard some that bring emphasis to the mystique of construction and and sound like borax, whereas others nibble the surrounding space like a giraffe until there’s nothing left but the fog and the butane flame of a fountain pen.

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