I open the electric cram and say “cure the knee.” And the knee is cured. Or not. I see a package hover the table and then the table issues a pink melody to put in the air. I feel the elephants heating the interior of the helicopter. And then I visit certain regions of a chicken. Echoes move the oil. The clouds mingle with meringue. Sorbet exceeds the build of electrons and issues a direct stump for the combustion of understanding.
And to think it’s only Wednesday.
Snow fingers chrome the keepsake. My memory of your outskirts. Which is a small organ at the front of the vulva. The fuchsia lung law courses through my realism. And what is realism? The stubbornly held gym franchise, that’s what. The ingots of honey I find at the summit of the mountain. The underworld misunderstood as a mackerel.
I smell turpentine. The sequelae of my theatre clothes is preoccupying. But I like it. I like it. Yes I do. The gerundive shoulder of time strengthens with isometrics. The hum of muslin, the scratch of blackberry vines. I roam to figure a fiend of lust and luster, rattling throughout.
I want to furnish a thoughtful black with a universe of pearls. Sugar is a key to snow. The phenomenal bang of the coconut tree, the soft hand of darkness. The chief cause of maps is tables and chairs. Rivers are more mercurial. They shine like prophesies. They roll over rocks brimming with picnics and whirls. Old wood. Candy in a birch canoe.
I have thorny hummingbird fingers. My favorite beverage is a pendulum foundry. Is pasta a form of exultation? Yes, it is. If spring meets its own abstraction, the result is citrus. A frog crashing through silverware. Moonlight on a suit.
I’ll take your hand, you take my hand. Together we’ll get away.
Sings Neil Young.
A conflagration of waves glories in the sound of clouds scraping over a caribou. The rush of the greenery capsule blossoms in my index finger. I burst, twisting to buy a sad honey bee. I climb onto a black awning and become a minute of mirth.
I need a marshy button to live. The fulminating phenomenon of a notebook. I want to pin a climate to this paragraph so I don’t have to dream alone. My shoulder twinkles with understanding. I understand water. I don’t understand neoclassical economics. I offer it a fat kick to the groin.
You can’t walk away from an experience. They get inside you and become you. Good ones, bad ones, monsoons, moratoriums, dinghies. Wind, sunlight, horticulture.
I paint a cuddly knot. The darkness of my gym toes is strangely vertical. The fox rids himself of aggression and becomes a better fox. I maneuver the detached crust to the side of the plate and muse on the zigzag of ancestry. It all leads to welts and lingerie. I suck the iron teat of contrast. And return home to a rising tide of unrest and skeins of worry. This will be answered by the wasp. Agreement between nations. Legs distressed by their own similarity. Get out. Get out now and stir yourself into circumstance. A red crack aglow in the crawl of the sun will lead you to the other side where the molecules are sewn into musk and the dead are clawed into light.