Peripatetic Ducks

The twang of a guitar gives us a brain full of music. One trigger triggers another trigger, as they say, and before you know it there is an oyster tickling your explanation for water. I float upstream and lie there staring at the ceiling. My intestines seem faraway, bunched in ooze and teasing Montmartre with a resurrection of lost saloons. The warp of a warm front twinkles over a crimson lake. It feels gold, like a moral, or a crack in the wall letting the sunlight through. The cardboard elegy is dipped in seven seas and given an anatomy of sidewalks and stilts. This makes everything words. I stumble through the apparel of my mind looking for something nice to wear. I need to murder a cloud at the aerodrome. We don’t need obscurity, we need flight. We need elevation. We need to combine wisdom with muscle and muscle with cartilage. It’s only proper to move around and dance to the music of the Beatles. The TV has thus modified its pixies and become a placenta of modern culture. Everything you need to know about Belgium is hiding inside a piano. The age whispered paper, but the bagpipes created animals of authentic fur and collar studs. A sexual fantasy scratched its genitalia with a tired enthusiasm. The garden, meanwhile, spit deliverance at a subpoenaed parakeet. A burned pickled named Dyl dropped by occasionally and told me stories about spurs and horses and the kind of anticipations that might arise in the middle of the prairie. I showed him my fingernails and he left in a huff. I took a bite of energy and bought an engagement ring for the planet Venus. This is what happens when a language broods in your indignation. All sorts of verbs come loose and become a tidepool of amusing nouns and peripatetic ducks.