Have You Ever Tried Combing A Chameleon?

Have you ever tried combing a chameleon? It gave me a voice, a finger I could slide back and forth. And time’s knives have ever since busied their blades, slicing space into minutes, and minutes into merit. The structure means nothing. It’s all about choosing wheels. Incongruity must also play a role. At the circus, we boil the dirt. Then we spread the sawdust, allowing our triggers to dream. Occurrences like this are called auroras. Tensions tend to swallow their own allegories. I saw morning flail in its emotion like garlic. It’s why I feel so sparkly and hirsute. A funny innocence haunts our singing, and so we twist our words, and put them in catalogues, to pound the public into veins. We trapeze ourselves toward crackling. And in the end, we find the beginning, from beginning to end. And fight our way back to the galaxy, where the stars are implicit, and the glue is entertaining. And then we unfurl. By which I infer eating, and slithering across the Missouri, hissing.

I crush the sweat trickles. It saves time. The ponderance pinned it to my mucilage. The table trembles with its own complexity. I spread it with linen, and the effect is calming. If it cracks, it’s not a table. It’s an exultation, sneezing our elation. Everyone is shouting halleluiah. Do you have a place for me in your voice? Caustic cactus into what? It’s something to consider. I can dig it if it hovers over our dilemma. It helps to map a strain with a black orchid. It’s revelatory to employ a volume against a wrist by whatever means. Imagery is tailored spit. The humidity in the conservatory is a little exaggerated. Furrows are a cause of raking. In this world, everyone gets everything backwards. We spin the beat until the rhythm pops, get down to business, make some faces, invent some abstractions, ignore the ultimatums, harness our words to a tender structure, let the traffic go by, sit back and listen to the moonlight spill its healing proportions. The air smells Gothic, and there’s everything a body could wish for waiting to happen in another lifetime.

This content isn’t ready at this time. But here’s what I have to say: nothing below the reel is a truer experience than crawling toward a seismograph during an earthquake. The real is never so reel as when it’s turning. I greet denial with survival. It’s a tin dimension that knocks on would. I snap at the mention of tendonitis. Right now, it’s quiet at the wharf. This sentence is tethered to a warp in space. That’s why it’s attracting so many clouds. The swirls in the armchair rouse our audacity. There’s always someone that needs the key to your laughter. The smell of opium mingles with the smell of elderberries. It can echo the gleam of a stethoscope. Sometimes I clank in the wind. Everyone sat beside it. The feeling. The feeling after. The feeling before. The feeling of gauze. And butterflies. We hired the best. The way to extend things via the sorcery of spice, and lace. Velocity comes in a stir of combustion, and they drill to obtain it. It’s time now. The map is folded and put back in the suitcase. The car is quiet. Until it starts.  The wheels are never so real as when they’re phantasmagoric. And the road goes right through us.