When The Images Dream

A confusion club attracts kiwis. Allow me to introduce Molly Ringworm. She sings soulful ballads from the fireworks door. I spit words for the flower. The one in the pot, by the carpal tunnel syndrome. We're in office mode if we dance. I’m learning the electric boogaloo. It tells the story of our mocking spirit. The impulse joke. I grew it from a concertina and a handful of coordinates. There was a sense of impending mutation. Perplexity at our incense rush. It’s best to infiltrate a fall by exalting it. Just before you hit the floor. Talk fast. But meaningfully. Like you were wrestling with something. A sudden revelation. Or an express escalator laughing all the way down to the lingerie department. Because we encumber ourselves in the volumes of life, and such things deserve a special kind of attention. A bas-relief of choice heats my stove, and the house gargles a piano. When the images dream I feel like an airplane. The world floats in my blisters. The abstractions carry plump green thoughts. And the carp enjoy the sun in shallow water. What does it all mean? It’s not even a question anymore. It’s an argument.

I wonder how many people wonder, on a daily basis, WTF am I doing here?

It’s good to sprawl out near the singing fold. I want the door to be fractious, it's a participle, not a ripple. The discipline begins with a charming process involving recruitments, odors, and engaging perversions. Civilization is embarrassed. The bulbous aberrations are jaunty tonight. What romance! What luxuries! Yet all is not perfect. There are problems, debts, and rampant prolixity. Planets orbit the mismanagement of your inner conflict. I see wormwood in your gallantry. Why must everything in life be so corduroy? My rose believes everything I pour on it. A powerful voice can twist an entire paragraph into believing it’s Victor Hugo. But it takes a real idiot to chew the air into a turnip. Yachts don’t make me jealous. Houses do. I like to hum majuscules when I tear buzzwords apart. I’m trying to get at the shape of things. Amazing ovals. Trapezoids. Spheres. Nonagons. Prisms. Kisses. Bedsheet salons. The bulge of time in an inflatable daydream. Demand diamonds. Follow your instincts when they come to a boil.

If you look inside the novice bird, you’ll see all the offers are from the beyond. There’s even a coupon for withdrawal. It’s a retreat conducted by a whisper of yearning. Things seem to be happening backwards. The time is out of joint. Sculpt an exculpation, excite the dusty grace of forgiveness. It pays to develop an argument. It’s hard to convince anyone of anything these days. And yet everyone’s so gullible. Illusions feed my romance with milk. I turn the page and slide down a snapdragon. I know this zone. It’s an airport under pressure from a drop in trust. A good slap will defuse the situation. Accepting a stick across a loving embrace signals a U-turn. A cardboard joke sashays out of the elevator. Everything stems from a zipper what a crock. The word balloon on stilts is a better stopgap than a suitcase when it comes to cartoon technology. A chronically thick vertigo might be a symptom of technicolor. You should go see a cinema.

If I have time to sit beside a perception a reason for doing so will eventually present itself. I put this down straight. Actions in the past have a way of insisting on their backslide. My personal astronomy became an emotional whirlwind after rumors were spread. The slightest laziness on the part of the writer will be discerned among the litter, the empty beer cans, the wide-eyed look of the ballerina hiding behind the couch, Jerry Lee Lewis rocking out on a flat screen TV. The many pitfalls of representing a scrambled circumstance with all the right notes and nuance. The sky glossing over all its proposals with a layer of feathery cirrus. The mystery of the Mary Celeste. The poignancy of any random waterfront. Cry of gulls. Shifting of perspective. I saw Elvis in a French fry. It had tiny lips and a thunderous pompadour. What slow entertainments I do in the autumn is a testament to my capacity for constructing a stately lassitude, upholstering it with butterflies and gargoyles, and launching it from a 19^th century rolltop in Giggleswick.  

Is this what the fall of Rome felt like? I think it was more like the weight we pretend to carry when gravity fails. When the old laws fail and the new laws are waiting to be written. The past is a condition of the present. It’s not the kind of thing you want to balance on the end of your tongue. You don’t do anything 50 years ago. Even though you can feel it waiting. The first time I saw Paris. The last time I saw sorcery. What haunts me, what’s chained to my leg. The veins. The bread on the table. We slosh back and forth in ecstasy smelling of dirt and bark.