I Dwell In A Wallow Kitchen

I dwell in a wallow kitchen. I blow blue to build green. My extension is a windy shawl. I’m hip to the food of ecstasy. Kindness is a hope lake.

Here we are. We are here. Here are we. Are we here? We are hair. We are heretic. We are hermetic. And a wad and a wade and a weather and a kick.

The spade is a shore rinse. The climate in shambles congratulates the ivy. A frantic glass chicken pecks at a peccadillo. Redemption fizzles hard. The lung window has no stomach for squalls. And is therefore pink.

I hide my support from wandering. A similar cosmos shatters into agenda. Polynesia favors rent over grandiosity. And so chrome rubs shoulders with paper, finds grace in remembrance, coconuts in trees.

My tie is a tamarind fleece knot, and a pilgrimage for my fingers. Foam suggests flambé, does it not? This is an ink toting craze, a fermentation of thought, a testament to writing technology in the guise of a rosy-faced lovebird. There’s a man on the ceiling. I think it might be me.

What can I tell you concerning the awesome middle of initiative, the mud bordering the foliage of a terrible need to stop beginning to begin and begins to begin beginning, and leads to mountains and imports and apprenticeships? Cats are complicated creatures. But so are swans and clocks and honeybees. The bolus of sweet nerves eating the sunset of a western sky saunters toward the jelly of existence. The antenna hammers the sky with ants. Seaweed flaunts the shores of Louisiana as a bearded chin slips through its clouds singing Hallelujah. And everyone dances.

I have my diving board pay and I’m feeling pleasantly immoderate, like the puzzling side of a whale. I tap my clothes for luck. The sequelae go off fetching lipstick. The king’s head is liquid. But the realm is unimpeachably unilateral, and blinks with disaster. I see redemption in sticks.

Thinking is outmaneuvered by art. Glass, constellated by rain, induces trickle. The diamond canaries of autumn overflow the crumpled ground of night. Panaceas ooze mutation. Adaptation becomes angular and tubed. The membrane of a thoughtless leg goes cotton. What is it, this vocabulary? Is it a voice, a vestibule, or a sit-com? It is this. It is voluble, yet silent. The olfactory of recuperation, which is cousin to the apple, and cannot be expressed in words.