For All The Louvers Of Cubism

My hat beside my hand bundles in the throat teasing out a description in scruples and jars. My bacteria are mostly friendly but my grasp chops anchovies into little green words below my goad, which is either a blood bank, or paragraph. It all depends on the wind direction and our collective temerity. A creeping suspicion has shaken my rib. I do this for the splendor of your grape and rip it into gravity. We feel a boom in the wheel because it echoes distinction among the organs. I obtain ecstasy from brushes. We crash Yeasts into velvet. My bang has a clap to sculpt. The boat is for folding our thoughts into water. Examine pyramids. Their geometry is unraveling now that Egypt has airplanes. Everything wise and beautiful happens in shoes. Writing is more like agriculture. It needs dirt. It needs sunlight and rain. It needs to be ploughed and seeded. Think of the pen as a tractor and a laptop as a grain elevator. The pepper has been tilted to lament the murmur of the mosaic plunged into art like a chandelier. The hills cause us to strike against the pumice, which is soft, and crumbles easily, like compliments. I will send a pulse to the headland if it abandons its denial of a source. This is a parallel that I can put down on paper and grow into knives. I’m beginning to feel the circulation of things. Perfume is a muscle. It lifts the spirits when it's sipping glory from a well of memory. The fence tilts toward the fire. This is our future. A fountain in me chokes the smell of common sense in order to see everything as it is. The logic of balls inches toward remembrance. The engine yells at the garage with fiery sideburns. I feel the weight of nails in a paper bag and am propelled at last into experience. Our noses twinkle with it. I like to carry a belief to its natural destination and then untie the rope and let it go. The rattlesnakes strain to become morals in a world of balconies. And this turns to zoom like so many other prickles, which just goes to prove the louvers of Cubism.