Frequencies Of Atomic Scallop

Blithely configurational, we lobster against aesthetics. We have nothing against aesthetics, we just want to flirt, spend time in a laboratory mingling chemicals and brains. The lobster is a totemic spirit. Insults are crucial to my stock of photos. If I want to capture a look of despair, I don’t have to go far to do it. Repose is more of a challenge. Repose is private. It has to be coaxed. It cannot be coerced. A linen of Egyptian silk spreads in easy testimony. The eyes are closed. The breathing is easy. Except for bingo, I like to spew my guts and write sonnets. To mix the anonymous with the notorious, the serious with the delirious, the lyrical with the spiracle, the chimerical with the regrettable. If you’re tied up, hurry up, and give your casino a name. Gambling is a conversation with folly. Dark nights full of risk and inspiration. Gerry Marsden pulling to the side of the road to write “Ferry Cross the Mersey.” Wyatt Earp immersed in Middlemarch. It takes a special kind of focus to read a novel during a gunfight. No palette is a calliope. Try getting Jesus on your smartphone. We can do this all night. If there is but one thing worth isolating it's the sound of improbability. Put your pants on backward. Jiggle your qualifications. Frequencies of atomic scallop clip to the breast pocket in a perfect renunciation of irony. Scratch the entrance as I pull it into the sentence kicking and screaming. I shall do a structural dance around the ovulation of your umbrella. I must draw a little pollen from these phonemic anthers to create the nectar of propagation. Fertilization is a complex process beginning with thunderous interactions and climaxing with union. I believe, now, we’re getting somewhere. The possibility of achieving a fresh new perception trembles in the eyes of the reader like a flock of honking geese flying in a V formation over the meadows of Nova Scotia. The atmosphere grows thick with foreign energies and skittish intuitions. It seems we’ve aroused the suspicion of the guards. No matter. We shall disappear through the window I’ve placed here. The sky is the saga in which we sink to fly homeward. I put it on the coffee table. The coasters have sayings. Things like saws. Stilts and guided tours. Our curiosity is the boil of intellect, but our lineage is the sputter of blood on the lips. Burst grapes and decadent banquets. The point I’m trying to make is stuck in the wall. I threw it there in a rage. It only makes sense if you drape it with gauze and wear it like a gymnasium. Otherwise, what’s the point? It’s like I said. The point is stuck in the wall. But there is no wall. It was summarily demolished behind these words.