Piccolo Pickle Pop

It’s exciting to burst into Picasso. Eyebrows orbit the face. I can hear the crackle and twinkle of rumination. A red energy remains to develop snakes. I have secrets that I must clothe in rawhide. Abstraction is helped by a skull. I have one in my head and another in the glove compartment. One is capable of thought and one just likes to eat. I’m a worried man. But there are things that I can chop into empire. I can toss myself into my bones in the morning when the light breaks apart on my face. The ego is just an assembly floating in gentle Technicolor. When I open my ocean I feel evasive, but in a good way, like minerals shining in correlation. I once saw Bob Dylan climb into a song. And when he reemerged he had a simple aesthetic, a blonde toaster with a blue jaw. I know the stove is crayon but don’t let that fool you. All the nouns are neon and all the verbs are joules. Imagine Jupiter. Tie clasp open to gold. Not everything is money. Some things are mosaic. Meanwhile the metamorphosis rips us up. We stiffen and grow glasses. Cry kerosene all over the nails. Diffuse elevations. Life is public above Portugal. I like to attract nutmeg. Apprehend henna. My plugs hold the electricity in place with glue. Representation is largely an art of situation. Light punches its way out of the goulash. Words swarm around my arms. I can admonish nothing without a little juxtaposition. It haunts the chopsticks. Your travel shines infrared. Winces with tread. Sunlight grasps a paradigm. Chops the battle orange. Incised pop. My warp bends the nebula. We climb into our gloves. The dripping trumpeted the granite over its mountain. The squeeze articulates the walk. Winter details our cotton. Picasso flows a spoon. Minerals glow in the black light of speculation. Poke the stove phantom if you want to see this pie become nucleated. The proverb spreads thinking. Perceptions pickle. Red light ensemble that we play with four cellos and an obstacle. The indicative carves the steel on a copper lobster. Feathers aim at flight the way an anonymous pain assumes the delicacy of kelp then drops it. A change in the jug luxuriates in shadow. The smear pump is sweating. I focus harmonies by amber. Cabbage gargles the landscape. I’m feeling a feeling around a hirsute sorority. A radio sleeps our properties. A green glow twinkles. Bubbly faucet drool. The pavement shoots at aesthetic. The shop’s dynamic depends on a brush. One must accommodate propulsion if one plans to dance with a salamander. Jump into motion like a magician. Twitch a little. I water sense on a railroad. Shake and grab the steam. I’m jaunty as a clapper in a red bell milieu. And blue.