Loopy Morality On A Möbius Boat

Sound is a negotiable medium. Loopy morality on a Möbius boat. The muscles twinkle. The thick hit makes a thin sepulcher. Trees fall. The muffin there fulfills its own drool. Here’s a palette for the explosion of morning tomorrow. This reflects a knife. The gasoline in the garage. The mink Cubist and his monkey gospel. A drop of will opened the mailbox. And out walked a letter from John Keats. I folded it and put it in my brain. An orthogonal hump shot lightning out of my back. Strength is the cinnamon in my spice rack. I behave like a bloom and push eating at my mouth which excites it into chewing. A yellow blister unrolls a hassock and gets ready to appear in court. I skulk around the cabbage circulating blood in the manner of a true king of syncopation. Teeming with sails, I check for damage and fulminate. Age is a trap. Don’t get old. Get young. Find a travel pump and put it on the dashboard. Metamorphism looks lovely today. Show me your hand. Hold it up. High. It should look like a tentacle. Hunger is a pocket still dripping with ovum. Redemption swarms with thresholds. We must expand it to include doors. It’s summer and everyone is eager to walk outside and discover the beauty of blunder. Our motion rattles with nothingness. I dwell in a jug of white lightning. The house under my swollen thumb trickles a fretful story. Bite the wild copper and take a dive into the pigsty. You will come to an understanding. Treat it like a stork. Apprehension makes me stiffen until I’m opaque. Rub me, and I will give you a sound to remember. The snow drives the scales to weigh the sky. Diversions cry for harps. I go out to hunt the orchid of my dreams. Our hunger strains to find its shape in food. I feel like unraveling in a painting by Corot. That soft Italian light is all I need to complete my testimony. The stars collide in a sexual gut and the horses run off into the night. My belt buckles and pulls the buffalo toward the sun where my energy happens and the tabernacle hisses with intensity. In the background a copse of aspen is just barely visible through the steam. And as the dream of life awakens, the pretentions of the night die a pretty death. The tents come down. The stakes are lifted from the ground. And all of this has a sequence. And a quiet sound.