The Vagaries Of Oysters

We run willow to my friendly heckle. Below the ultramarine wheels behind the throat is a laugh. It’s gestating. Attach yourself to a fasten batch before the zipper cracks a slide open. Pigeonhole the pimp pimple. I want to tell you something. Writing is a bundle of imponderable brocade for my fingers to do. Often, while doing automobile explorations, writers choose paragraphs to do the harder sensations. I use contraptions if I need to change the epilogue. Formulas, foreknowledge and fountains. Sensations persuade us to go on tours. As I am I am as a flap of mohair. I will go anywhere. Even Reno. While the candy stings, our touch will be supernatural. Open your eyes. Look around. One step is busy while the other one squirts. A limousine will greet you at the next artery. My nebula pulls on it subversively and creates espresso. Feels like my soul has turned into steam. So chew right, we modified a violin. Cod over what hope bungles. Cod on what hope wastes. Good cod. I just saw Milwaukee. It was so completely charming I couldn’t stop smiling. And now I go around clinging affectionately to bicycles. Abstractions waxed our rumbling summer. Later, when no one is looking, in slips the inspirations that we wrinkle. The within lifts our deliverance. A voyage without a phonograph like butter without jam. So I stayed home. And lied down on the bed. And voyaged the ceiling. I saw a big red truck. The motor made a noise by smelling its own velocity. And lowered itself on a thin silk thread. Just to say hello. Then go back up. Twist the old contrasts in a Spanish hotel. I’m growing myself as I hold it together with a woman. There are lyrics to manage the dashboard of my private accent. Waste nothing. Except waste. However spectral my bang, they expand it toward the end. Gasoline this mingle cake to our benefit. Some wobble will be needed to achieve climax. My mind is bouncing around the room. It’s out of control. It could use a theorem. Or the harsh realities of winter, which are out there now, howling. It’s the junkyard grammar that forces us forward, and causes iron to brood. Grope the dance we bruise with our museums. The lobster tugs on my impenetrable gloom and makes an art out of it. And this is where the tuna comes in. My boat is out broken on the shoal this morning. The interior is insinuating, but generous in its conceits. The landscape is crucial to a decision involving a sudden clarity. But it’s even more important to pay attention to the weather, the shape of the hull, and the vagaries of oysters.