Broom spirits swept the diving board clean. Potato soup fulfills the goals of the stomach and makes it a festival. Go pearls, go snow. Sequels whistle my art. I’m the hotel jewel man. The dwarf does nothing fast. His very absence fulminates in melody like an idea. Slothful ingots of cocoa belie the noodle barometer. It’s a cracked elfin bronze, like my sister’s hat.
My eyes trigger the refrigerator, which whirs into action, creating a cold like that of the arctic, but less strident, and more like the jellied veritas of congelation, or marmalade. A daily disaster of butter chews through the confusion and grasps the helm of appetite. A cricket climbs up to my hip and chirps like a second pelvis. Later, after gorging on a chocolate doughnut the size of Isamu Noguchi’s Black Sun, I stood in a field of algebra palpating a polynomial. Eventually, it sneezed, and made a new library. A Martian emissary arrived on the horizon with a truckload of percussion, and we all floated in hindsight, believing the past to be a form of Gothic realism, from which we harvested lyrics for our songs and mosses for our podiatry.
Hunger personifies the gondolier whose short nimble wings carry us into the domain of the invisible. Battle ears are the nutmeg of analysis. Buy a bingo lobster and enjoy the outdoors. The Sparkle Club was its own happy setting, harked the fierce cactus with a lisp and a desert frown. And so I sat down and amended my adjustments to the world with a loud cockatoo obtained from cocaine and an incendiary dimple I let fall in a pile of innocence. Do not attempt this at home. You will only confuse the neighbors.
I believe a shrill cry will cause the gates of Hades to creak open and hairdos to rumble with the kind of benign neglect we saw in the middle of the last century, when everyone was trying out new modalities of thought, and crashing into religions. That was then. This is now. Scraps of morning tinkle in our conversation. Masturbating euphemisms scratch at everyone’s door, yearning for sanctuary, and a nice warm bed. A thin melee of unbalanced perspective savors of provocation. The hibiscus dares state itself as a hazy wild noise, and we sink into the field wanting a few more napkins to daub the mustard from the sun.
I know what it is. The source of the problem. If you want to call this a problem. I let things happen. I encourage things to happen. And the outcome is rubber, as always, and a little bit custard, and vanilla extract. I crawled through a hole in the eye of a newborn and saw the future of orthodontics. This made me understand the need for pepper, but where was the salt, where was the empathy for paper, and the people that make paper, and the trees and streams that bring paper into being? It was all turning around in the mind, exciting as the biology of retail.
I opened the door to the kitchen, and there were onions on the table and soap. I’ve always been eager to generalize from actual experience. The potato chips are worth exploring, yes, but what is better, the ears or the tongue? Flexibility punishes bronze. It was a muslin Monday and the canopy of my bed trembled with onanistic conviction. The cat ate quenelle by the candle. A bullish feeling of streaks brought me to the brink of oblivion. The view was ageless. And that includes seaweed.
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