A Trinket Of The Mind

You can say bliss is yellow. You can call to the root of the baobab during a storm on the plains of Zimbabwe. You can write a paragraph that flames like a mushroom in a forest of words. But to create a fact with a luxurious sting you must drink the flight of the hummingbird.

An iron knowledge helps establish a meaningful wind in the life of a hippopotamus. And yet the ink that dreams of being a nail will sometimes be confused with a swamp.

This is a book of radar in a ginger terrain. Here, scratch the snowball card. This will prove that money is hurt by nicknames.

I mixed a nightcap with a nightclub and found a hibiscus in my shame.

What beautiful foam this water makes. The intake is a dagger. It’s like a mouth one blurs with quintessence.

Is this getting anywhere yet?

Eggs drink buttons. It’s how chaos moves through a sentence. I rattle my birth at a little aroma. It gives me a sense of scarlet identity. Out on the prairie time has mellowed our noises. Our pearls of rain mimic the bustle of sage.

I see enough reason for an alpine shadow that I hurry to sell it to the moon. It's a beautiful night. The stars are scattered like ingots of golden vertigo. Somewhere near Cutbank an elephant smells raspberries in the sweet prairie air. Memories of Botswana warm her mind.

The state of being is to be considered as an ebony ambiguity becoming correlative to all things through a trinket of the mind. How might an ambiguity be lipstick if it already has a diameter? The reason is simple. Because percussion has a gnome in it. And his name is Kolbein Butter Penis.

Blink against the wall showing off the spoke of the wheel. Step forward. Take a breath. Jump to me now suggesting darkness. Together we will move forward through the sentence allowing the rain to belong to the waves. And in the end cause beautiful things to happen to our bodies.