Saturday, February 18, 2017

My Puppets Are Wet

Blood wanders my body murmuring being. It plays with my bones and glides into temperament. I feel its throats dip into pavement for crystal. Momentum does the rest. I grab some electricity from the clouds and throw it into a book.
A trance converges on socialism. A bump wanders my head looking for a home. Space is a sow drooling comets behind the sheriff. This corresponds to hawthorn. I’m doing my best to understand the pornography of power.
My experiences pull themselves into description. Power is a waterfall asleep on an ironing board. Or would that more properly be called potential? It is called by its true name, which is avocado. Power is the ability to fly a 240 ton cargo-aircraft through the eye of a needle.
And land in Guam. What does one do in Guam? Life is tangential to Guam which is also ribbons and seesaws. Perspective is everything. Including cracks.
There is a proverb in which are clothes are uncontrollable. And our ears reach into the garden for music. We have learned to better understand our knives by shipping them to high elevations and carving mountains out of the clouds. Or clouds out of the mountains. I once punched a stream of water and it blazed into reality as a brain.
My puppets are wet and infrared. Coals flash occasionally in the hibachi. A brain walks by dressed as a human being. I wave. The brain waves back.
My favorite book is a twinkle in the carousel. This involved three casualties, a carp, and an equally tall smack on the lips. If I told you it was raining would you believe me? It’s raining. Cats and dogs.
Most of the phenomena around my legs grow into theorems that I can sift through shouts of eternity. This includes broken plates, accordions, doctrines, luminosities, and corn on the cob. I lead a full life of museums, fingers, and hectic abandon. There is a prominence on the rue d’Orsel that repeats its candy like a true buffalo. I see a bend in the road where we can end our turmoil in outer space.
And then some. You know? Like a real piccolo. I am adrift in a massive trembling that can only be music. My emotions feed it compliments and bones.
My intentions lean against the proboscis of a dead folk song. The new folk song will fling itself at the crowd like a bowl of coleslaw. It will appeal to their darkest instincts and mushroom into sirens. Empires will collapse. The human voice will be visceral as eels.
I know we’ll have fun inventing a new movement. We haven’t had a movement in a long time. Movements tend to come and go. This one will scud across the mind making libraries and ferns. Life will be different it will be more like rain than eviction.
Mongrel birds effect my toga. When the clarinetist is inside her instrument she has an international feeling. Her redemption of chrome walks into shouting and we paint ourselves into a corner with an old air of fairyland rust. Someone rides geometry bareback. The concluding elevation keeps on going until it’s completely insoluble. 

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