Theorem Serum

The words will never be what I want them to be: boats, pumps, seeds. Random fluctuations. A renewed polar ice cap. Fireflies. New Mexico. Horned lizards everywhere. Enhanced anarchic relations. Intestine ceremonies. Buildings of frothy coincidence. The mathematics of cake. A scorched teasing stretch of spin shop. Venerated murmuring geriatric centaur. Thinking grows a head of repurposed make-believe. The window aims at pronouns. The smell of testimony in a sleepy caricature fused to a manipulated nasturtium bounces through the sentence creating images of paradise. Ears steeped in the myth of the oboe bloom in a jukebox omelette. Eggs of sound hatching out into incandescent yo-yos. Exercise joined to crying in the mailbox. Grope rope. Spatial metamorphic hat of delicately assembled wire. So moving, so palpable, all truth and light, it’s so emotional that rashes break out and everyone tries to understand the pretty putty of time as it holds space in a wormwood sombrero. It hurts me little darling through the morning through the night. I swim through everything you say. Progress performs its suspensions in a sphere of dynamic sprints. Mindfulness in the steam house. Metaphysics folded into proverbs. A bottle of evergreen and wind. The mountains dripping conceits of rock and height. The charm of water changes how I see the world. There are paths around the lake. The enthusiasm of the Etruscans protects the twinkle of tangibility in a hammer. It should be a worldwide thing. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. I’ve used a lot of hammers, but this is the best one I ever used to build something, an emotion, a landscape, a place for the words to pullulate. And why won’t they? These words, these nerves, these ivories of sound. Why won’t they gather at the deep vertical opening that is the origin of the world and concede to the lips of such an explicit wisecrack? Why do they elude our twists, our convulsions? Why? Why do they wink with lechery? The symbolic learns to melt into insemination. Inseams of unseemly bargaining. A woeful doleful account of life in a leer. Balzac in Paris. Her majesty a cat sitting by a window.