Man On The Runway

Pulse my spoon if the tumble outward is my reality. I’m watching our plugs writhe. Stink wear along the ingredients. I wander a timeless Baudelaire. I’m the formula for a stepladder I ski.

If a noun can make a flavor shout contact I would advise it. The embellished explanation must flourish in obscurity if it is to make a difference in sagging. I feel like groping the python. A cuticle is a cap of rain. I feel it in all the things I do. This constant fastening. This meditation.

It’s pretty to wallow and build my respect. Arms wear images if there’s a tattoo parlor nearby. Snap some begging amid the purple alerts. We make decorations so loud it makes the brocade sweat. I drill my wallet with a picture of money. There are ports considered by chin that I would gladly support, even if it takes all summer. Wet cement when I’m feeling busy with being alive.

Swerve out I say and bend to the light of my bulbs. Prowl a seashore. The emphasis should be on grandeur. A muse in the Louvre holds your Pythagorean window. You can learn things from fencing. Amalgamation is where the appeal begins to rattle.  The muscle of the heart makes this moccasin seem included. Therefore, I climb the staircase meditating on a dream I support.

A chisel believes the steel. Seashore cubes we crowd with assertion to make flower our clasp. I get it. Arrange a gross confession thickened with trickle. Lean in close. Let your nostrils take in the smell of creosote. I mean the concertina a willingness to play it but lack the skill to pull it off. What’s important is intent. We begin the migration while we pummel our talk with caviar.

My coffee is a limousine for the mind. We get tattooed in the rain. Me and my cup of coffee. There’s a twist in the story by which one can seduce the estuary and make it a swamp. Enkindle crystal. It makes the thermometer lower in expectation. But rise in urgency. A diagnosis of life is something I can live with. I see this sweeten a vertical ejection with surprising combustibility.

Pound a luminous edge if the dirt lingers. If I exhort overmuch, I will sift the dregs of my tea for a gentler mode of expression, and a glimpse of the future. Here emerges an angel of hinges. This is why the door creaks. There’s a spirit inside. As rails to the earth ambiguity rolls forward with purposeless purposefulness. Swimming among sharks isn’t a challenge it’s just plain stupid.

The hibachi urges heat. Mimicry urges death. The dissolution of the ego in a pudding of imitation leather. Hectic abandon we clench with our teeth. The assembled robin is a good robin albeit constrained by its surface to remain an emblem for the triumph of woodbine. I shall withdraw now and attend to my books. The aftereffects are as broad as the willingness to sparkle, or the readiness to endure the implications of this. I’m fine on the sidewalk, impersonal as a gym instructor. But out here I’m frantic, and orange. A man on the runway, waving semaphores.