The Language Saloon

We enter the language saloon. It’s why we feel erratic. A plug enthralls a hiatus igloo. And is proved by theorem. We tin nothingness after rawhide. Which is why it rocks.

I sense a ball bursting. Do you want a beginning? The age glued my house. We touch a violin pitch. Being likes the blue clang. A language piled in depth.

We spread the loaf propellers. I hit a hum blob. I want this to conk. Push the blood to scuffle. A sail flaps with beauty. It was always so strong. 

The hoe modified the kelp. It dripped from my skin. I like to skim rumination. I’m on ruminant black wings. This could cause an almanac.

I remember how Chicago worked. Our coffee unrolled its fingers. I fattened a wallet jaw. This made everything Parisian stitches. And the words feel it. I’m angling toward its veins. Except what fiddlesticks can box.

Those are desks I flop. The scales strain to walk.

The incongruous gives me light. I worry a bread orange. I have slices of space. We wander over bubbly rivers. And it’s all so itchy. I think it’s the shirts. Thought it might be Ezra Pound. A job writing subtle gurgles. I feel it under windows. And I want to hop.

Hope is more like hives. Flaps arrange weight by skull. How does this make sense? My implications are disgracing limousines.

Life is more like denim. It reaches for a canvas. Shapes embedded in green intricacies. What the strings all carve. All those violins evolving protein. So that life can prickle. A brushwork there curves it. The grip turns to retail. And capitalism shuffles by evasion.

The perspectives drill out gifts. Rhythms flow from the drums. All roam homeward by canoe.