Rhapsodies Struck With Steel

Indecisive thermostat terrine. Slices of beat hormone. Squat that arrives by abstraction. Grumble canvas of hot usurping rain. Action gripped by nouns.

Testimony ablaze with forceps. This could be it. This could be a deliverance. Cabbage babies marching in a museum of exotic punctuation. I live in a willingness built by zealots, leprechauns, and lavish conjecture.  

Cool house whose aims fall into the logic of interiority, closets operable by nerve, angles hypnotized into string. Cream is pondered with a delicate sky, clouds in a spoon-induced swirl of liquid reverie. There is sometimes a TV in the corner knitting necromantic mittens and a club chair squirming in conceit like an ontological argument for the sanctity of ticking. Dirt stirs with the strange innocence of worms.

I want to change. I want to paint an apprehension. I want to paint it red with a blue centipede and a black lap. Indignation supplies the monotone of grievance with a mezzo-soprano kiwi. But everything else requires muffins.

To weigh a chestnut is an embalming of one’s absorption. It is to spurt out a confession of feeling, the many whirlpools in your neck which result in rosary sweeteners. My pillows are washed in a wooden mailbox. I receive letters that ask for my attention. I savor a gay science in a wild root of translation. I find a cantata to sing, a ball to punt. I answer what I can with a squeamish pontification. A voice like bees. The carpentry of association.

Feeling clean is done by thorn. Cash is muscle and contrariety. An eccentric lung canopy makes the planet foxy. I row a chain of clothes and wear them like snowballs. An open shirt of  Morse code and hilly tickets that never stop craving the company of elves.

Perplexity’s shadow rests on the hard edge of my palm. Blow on the radiation paint as it is chapped and hangs in space pleading for sugar and understanding. Provoke the lavender to bite a cloud. Quintessence is an undecided alpine well-being. The tincture of the ground is still hooked to its ecstasy, the pleasure of seaweed.

What we need is effervescence, not another hypotenuse.

In other words, an intervertebral stabilization assembly for arthrodesis including an inflatable intra-discal member and corresponding ancillary equipment: conjunctions, tropes, isotopes, exotic particles, alloys, block and tackle, glass and rubber tubing, buoyancy, sincerity, vaginal speculums, dipole magnets, proton synchrotron boosters, advanced tongue roots, bound morphemes, clause chains, glottal stops, hortatory discourse and a 4-stroke outboard motor.

I will come and make sense to you as a lump of earth, form considered as a prerevolutionary momentum. Literature is a problem. It always has been. And so the language is lanolin. Heed my contusion. The mechanism outstrips its own intentions. It becomes a moon. A combustible hobby. Thinking is really an insatiable project, you know? Of course you do.

Let’s say it’s the transmutation of a humor. Nozzles enhanced by vascular owls. Fragments of a reality alien to language, which is what? Archaic ratatouille made with ripe tomorrows and overlapping zithers. The kind of clothes that express toads and buckle with secret handshakes. Timeless slop. Road flares. Footprints in the mud. Slopes on all sides and rhapsodies struck with steel.