Phantom Descriptions

I sanded this paper with a bone to make it smooth as death. But who wants death around? Let me propose a balcony instead. What is it eats grunion among the elevators? The tennis courts are fierce this afternoon. I put it in my pleasure bank. The sting express is piquant with a vividness I agree to develop as soon as the emulsions gel. I like to sand things and have a device that fortifies grammar with the euphoria of contempt. The hills bark and shout. I’ve rounded the weight of a stem with an opulent grebe. This should prove that the etiquette of coffee is true to consider in real life situations. The collisions have stolen the dry-cleaning, but for what purpose, nobody knows. I just stand here holding a zipper as the dawn burns its way through the night and stands on the crest of the mountains with a giant emotion. All morality is charcoal. You see it in the embers. And in the steam of absence. The phantom descriptions of fish scales and Delft dinnerware. I drink it all in and mingle with the guests. The nails diffuse into a house. The hand walks its greed across the paper. Greetings serve the planets in a story by a man with unpredictable glasses. The horse spins when I throw the ball. Pepper denies its frame. One expects to touch the spring until winter kills it with summer. The spectral fat of a full moon drools first aid kits and French ochre shows how the octagonal intentions of a moose in papier mâché jumps the ritual shark of perplexity with umber elbows and a passionate orchestration. What a crazy sentence did you see that bus go by? I could swear that was Little Richard at the wheel. He grinned and waved and turned left on Tutti Frutti Avenue. My belt buckle roams its patterns while anchoring my pants to the piling of my legs. Think of me as a wobbly dock, or a sorcerer raising a bowl of combs to the goddess of hair. If I press gravity lightly it menstruates space. You can see traces of this on the tablecloth and there are marks of battle on the halibut. The blood of the palette carries a gaze. I’m braced for the rumble of articulation. The morning moss demanded a green paddle and then fell on the driveway. This is how airplane fragments create poetry. Inflate a lobster and what do you have? A compilation of itches scratched by parody. The sound of the word ‘knife’ on a cotton highway. I remembered how the spoon slumbered in its metal until the custard found its magnitude. The great battle between sugars and proteins was quicker in Montmartre. The mockingbird glowed on my sleeve as refractory butterflies fluttered in strangeness around the central jibe of their otherworldly static. The harmonica is an engine of peace. I pull the enmities out of themselves and bend them into goats.