Imaginary Solution

The pharmaceutical garden gnomes handspring through my brain. Despite the clatter I believe the dirt. The grip of cognition verifies the twinkle of paraphernalia. I greet the joke beneath the gleam of its smile. A prowling acceptance folds itself into Liverpool.

Bingo in a nipple which my gravity neglects. We accept the virtue of my eating. I drum beside the artist’s sag. Sift the jingles in your sternum if you want to find the satori of the thyroid. It’s indicative of scorn to cry along the exploration of our inner gardenia.

The texture of my aim was rough before I had intuition. I oppose nothing. I jug the studio in blue. I chronicle birds and change what I can. My chew is the kiss and shout of all things perpendicular and walking. Wall the idea in a wild disarray and it will validate the polo in a trickle of inseam.

I’m enthralled to have pinned this argument to an abalone. England will carry our history into the future. If there is a future. They’re doing to the fiddle what the fiddle did to Paganini. I mean to touch the firmament when the steam rises from the flash of my nerves.

The thickening of my succotash allows the evasion of my hurry. No balloon requires an insinuation. I sing the speed that so intrigues our realism. This wheel on the ground this bone black engine this spout of opium are all the rationale I need to sit by a brook and think. I thunder reality.

Gothic water intake valve. Sauerkraut book on a warm blue chair. I’m a whispering gun. A month of amphetamine in Vermont. An open flame of consciousness throwing language at an imaginary solution.