Gently The Worm Runs

Lung weariness dwells in knock knock pay. Gently the worm runs. It exceeds the emotional pillow. The sneaker leg drink walks on Gothic yellow soap. And what this does is dazzling, a northern flu of unbalanced cans.

Yes. The world is falling apart.

Maestro mashes the toot. This is how the true ranges the kinship of countenance. Look into those eyes and see how the magnet of guilt draws verbosity.

Rock crime by a chameleon patella. Sound is a poetry rag. I’m undecided trimming sugar. Hornet storm around the lampshade. Stones engulfed by a swimming pool.

Give me liberty or give me a bean. I will wish for a stalk of black-eyed peas. I crumple away by election. The pomegranate melee made sweating a priority, and we did, we sweated until the stationary arrived and calm prevailed in the greenhouse. The day organ used a rechargeable harness, so we could hop around on a single syllable. And then a chasm of mimosa music reached our ears by nominative fingers, and we could see the carpenter holding his knife.

Have a drink of molecular dwarf quintessence. Sultry letters were scratched on the sumptuous package.  They meant nothing but fire. I’m a career clock when the day closes. My night shirts produce sparks. I’m the rugged fly king. I drink a map of Norway in a storm of camel fat. That’s a nice bronze move you made. Can I have it? I’ll give you anything. Except my harpsichord. I’ll take a sullen misty shot at your salt and see what you think about gladiolas. We all need good moist dirt. And a poem made of quilted falcon offers.

America was wrong about ethanol. And so we went our way. Music hangs by a string. It made me effulgent and convoluted but I acquired a knot to sell. The truest music arrives in a red cloud of lightning and torment and shoots pellets of drunken thought at the night for fun. The night falls dead on a bed of blue air and rises with the dawn, a headache, a yawn, and yesterday’s clothes. Resurrected. And humped like a revision.

Dirty cave cry. Pineapple become bliss. Burning stomach plumbing. Stunned subtle ash. Thoughtless sinking knowledge. These are the moments in life’s drama when one dares a neon swan to jump into a swarm of language and discover a Danish hotel. Whispers of absence. Land twinkling with consciousness. A drawer full of lungs. And the frail grace of a gallant almond.