Glockenspiel Milk

Turpentine unites in sensation. The spirits split the paper into thinking. Thoughts are butter, just pull the string. I adjust to life as best as I can. I drink glockenspiel milk. I feel the seclusion of blue which is simultaneously reached by stumbling. I thrash around in bed each night looking for sleep in a hilly oblivion. I sweep the punches into a paper sack and go clanking around the house in the armor I welded by spark and anarchy. My buttons groan controlling opinions of my shirt. The thermometer trapped a temperature and ate it. Now it’s cold in my sonnet and the lobsters adjust themselves to an ocean in the making, a basket of water charmed by correspondence. Can you hear the echoes of Spain? The airplane invents itself. The air endorses our injuries. If we linger among the clouds it’s because there is a certain prominence in locating a friendly pie. We at the Théâtre Montmartre understand ourselves by speaking in metaphysical geographies, little smells like incense, big smells like grease in a motorcycle shop. I’m not responding to the liquor today because I didn’t drink any. I’m too fond of glockenspiel milk. You squeeze the udders and pull. The rest is music. The delectation of sound in an aching expansion of logic.