Drink the onion candle. There is aggression glue for the membrane shade. This works best in complete quiet. This is oats for the jellfyfish, but insoluble for the rain. Below the spout there is nothing but stars. Be a beautiful polish to them. Allow yourself to butter the truth with applause.
The truth is not always slender. Sometimes it is reptiles. I recollect remaining in the tinted grooves of Blonde on Blonde until the dimes began to shine in exemplification of the scrapbooks up in the attic and the world seemed easy and green. That’s when the streetlights were nearly everything we needed, and the sidewalks had intent. The lightning continued to burn on its open side. It’s as if we were somehow enthralled with Cubism and yet continued to enjoy winter.
The plunge into powder is my way of saying that the knife delineates a dimension hanging over the evocation of fingers. At least, I like to look at it that way. What else can I say? The towels are clean now and not as hirsute as the hobbits around here, partying late into the night, drinking Old Peculiar and smoking Tolkiens.
Late afternoon is stirring and the growls coming from the shrubbery convince me of chickadees. Summer is so simple. It is simpler than all the other pulleys strung together making the scenery come closer.
As for oars, who cares? We can drift. We can let our hands hang in the water. We can continue our sewing later. There’s no hurry, only a few burning sensations and longings to play in a rock band. Other than that, I feel that my escape must come from within. Running is a personal favorite, but desperate times call for desperate measures. It is why I began slouching and hanging out at the drugstore. It bites to think a tree is authoritative. But yes, a twig exhibits feathers, and this, too, is a collaboration.
Our monthly intake of water does its melodies by making the ink of its descriptions do things in a grimace that, once it’s written down on paper, appears more like the luxurious juggling of tambourines. You can also do this with your suppositions and theories. It’s easy as twine. Space is forgiving. But gravity is hilarious. I mean, come on. Can it be more obvious? I think I’m falling in love with the weight of a movie ticket.
The greenery of the wind relocates the darkness. The Alps defend Sunday from the pretty clouds of Monday. Nature is mostly scorpions and wasps. Maybe poultry. I’m not sure about poultry. Are chickens natural? If you rub something obscure long enough it begins to shine like varnish and do the hully gully. Every faucet has a mouth, every sentence has a purpose. The purpose of this sentence is frequented by a group of words that want to reflect on the suppleness of the human tongue. They urge conference. Listen to the bees grow into the sensual drool of calculus. Listen to the predicates click their lyrics into the scenery of gills.
This is a moment for pearls. The king thought his bones were expanding and wrote a sullen letter to Egypt. Egypt responded by saying that the encounter with the terrine was languishing in seaweed. This directed the king to seek beatitude in the peripheries, out of the direct sunlight and in the shadows by the window. Egypt stepped into the Nile and shined.
The lighting here is busy. The bulbs sweat sauerkraut. The eyes groan on the bookshelves. The hives come to us in our dreams, bearing the softness of moonlight and the raw fleece of autumn. Our carpentry is jubilant in its rudiments and demands the glory of fact. Scraps among the harpsichords prove that the effacement of music is paint, not noise as we suspected. Noise is just a sound spinning in the face. Not everyone can twinkle. Some of us have stories that seethe with trapezoids. I like generating peculiarities of failure. Escalators, unicorns, tidepools.
The eyes are lounges for the judgments of the brain, which are suspended in microscopes.
There is a movie in which a naked woman welcomes you at the door and a movie in which a fish clarifies hints of clay.
Welcome away blatant woman. Start your stomach logs. We have toes for the snow and organs for experience.
Theory blurs the rough terrain. Jelly drags the track chair across the room and Marie Laurencin waits for it in her sleep. The pure way of the monastery is to go hiking and pick blackberries. We seduce one another with a little driftwood and a lot of cupcakes. There is an apricot that feels sad for the pill of regret which is a bear whose veins make a case for the imaginary money of a canary. But it’s hard to swallow. This level of anthropomorphism is alarmingly literal.
Eating exhibits parables. We find a path toward the butter and the imagery of this requires a pineapple. You must envision playground slides for the potatoes to happen. They’ve been mashed and put in a bowl. A drool bends the surface so that it feels kinetic. Postage stamps speak of a floating office. This means that the derivative takes all the cake and leaves us with the cost of shipping. And that, too, calls for the use of infrared filters.
We cut the lawn with a kind of knife. You’re probably wondering why we skipped the backyard. I think it has something to do with Portugal. Lisbon is beautiful. My sense of the outdoors is a little scratched but zips together nicely in order to tell you that the lions are roaring. Please continue drawing. Congratulate the mass of the street during an era of clouds. This makes eating saws. This makes saws walk. This makes walking saw through making. Making is incarnation. I’ve seen it happen before. It helps make your bones stronger. This is especially important in space. Weight loss diminishes bone mass and raises the amount of calcium in your blood. But now we’re getting technical at a time when we need to be instantaneous. Words don’t happen by themselves. They need snow and limousines.