Lunar Module

Architecture botch indicates there’s a fountain in my chisel. Piles above that I lobster into audacity like a true hallmark of juice. There’s a bistro bowl which proves that my navigation is revelatory and feudal. Or do I mean futile? What do I mean? I mean dried flowers starved for rage. Strong inclinations fiddled by prayer. And so it begins. I climb into some pathos. The within looks like Colorado. The without looks like Kansas. I rub ghosts out of my mouth. They say visit the artist and be a visceral desk to your relatives. I feel insults in my prophesying, hysterics in my megaphone. I think of decorum as a unit of electrical resistance, an unpredictable voyage in relation to matter and a libido that permeates the river as it walks through itself to empty into France. Wide-eyed heat is a principle cause of blimps. My sense of plurality gets athletic near the fringe. Infrared and henna make it curve into reality where the circus finally finds its algebra in the sawdust of an enthralling energy called into being by a renegade gargoyle. And so I rest, knowing how to jiggle, how to juggle, how to nudge obscurity out of the oboe and into the public realm where the drums go lyrical, promenading in sticks, boom boom boom, fragments of rock notwithstanding, which are mesmerized into density by the breath of angels.