Thought Bump

Highway a trombone. The stir in this velvet is prehistoric. Phantoms in the sluice. Thought bump. As chowder whirls so whirls the world. My requirement goes until plunged into dirt, where it becomes a matter of itself to itself. We furrow it big like an indentation sympathetically floated on a desk. The drive made us greasy. I went along to stick a painted radar on the airplane. I’m a trickle of gray, a doorway slapped with russet. Art is a form of the Absolute Spirit, a phenomenological complement to a revelatory resistance to genetic spreadsheets. The equivalent to birch. A testimony enriched by horn. I’m your talk among antique thumps of tongue on a sentence made of sweat. Personality is the wandering we do in the maps around the property. Your walk is over there where your legs are going. There’s a bite in the visa. A wrinkle reprises the eyes. Flowers are nature’s paraphernalia. They give us a pure understanding of sensuality. A convention is aghast at this. Don’t worry. Your itch is my scratch. Gauze on a seesaw. The prospect from here is yanked from pathos and pounded into habit. There’s this potato to enhance. We can do it with tea. Yesterday the sky was dropped on a tent causing the pigments to increase into sags. But today the trees put everything back. Incense shakes the glass. What is heaven? Music. The cry of ooze from a peat bog. A man walking down a road to greet a woman.