Snow Bump Whistle Burp

Personality is a limestone waddle. Piano keys in melodic thunder. Chiaroscuro morning. Turpentine. Catalogue sputter. Pathos hibachi propelled by sizzle. Exultation points wrapped in mass. The dark matter of a constitutional grain is manipulated by gremlins. We all seem curved. I turn infrared and find my muscles have all gulped Guyana.

Window cook. Coffee laughing at a map. I succeed at roots although the doctrine of bristles eludes me. I have rattan to murmur and I expect to be culminated in pink. The prominence of steel sticks to my secret humor, which is sideways, and huckleberry.

I’m bewildered by mimes. I pull my goals into kerosene and light them on fire. I endure by including emotion. The life of a cat is an office grouse. I saw my intestines in anarchic ecstasy and decided on burlap by counting the ruts in a nearby road. The incentive to fly deepens my respect for dreaming.

The door steers are an ensemble. Wisdom circulates the pigment thunder.

I float in syntax. I’m freely vital, but also a little roller skate. Orange is never vague. But it’s baffling how the hairbrush is shoved across the head without stinging any sounds up there.

I explode into exhibition. Light hugs and a deep rub. Snow bump whistle burp.

I’m a lost chronological tonic of sparkly silt. The river moves over me I’m a catfish on the bottom of your attention. Unpredictable viscera whispering coalition. Heaven is an imponderable excursion through my leg. I’m all airplane. Wool’s unseemly seamlessness in seesaw scrutiny. Roots finding themselves tangled in the cemetery transformations. A robin listening for worms.

If I increase my perspectives I get ghostly indentations in my lotus. I rip myself into appointments. I stray a little from the topic which was never quite established to begin with and anchor near Marseille. The caboose always greets the places its leaving.

And this is awakened by feather. The pulleys creak as we draw the sky closer. I feel the energy of sharing. Tugged. Jingled by the guests. I can see infinity in the curve of a spoon. Time in the tines of a fork. Sand. Mass is such a rascal. The thumb hangs from the hand indispensable and fun. We deepen our resources by leaving our doors open. And Cezanne gives space a theatre.