The Smell Of Heat On Marble

A shy hip provides an almanac. Candle language. Drama driven by feeling open. The wind elf satisfies the monastery. Go summer lift the puddle to sparkle.

Begin a walrus muscle plaster. Bear kite memory that hovering is a body of mist. A neglecting season of notebook encounters. Radical swell for a cave of noble pedestrians. Thoughtful need for a planet that forges magnets of Nevada sage.

Fill up the redeeming career time with basement toys. I hope that a sad poplar will be born on the border. Hollow are the words of algebra. Run to the agate bandage and think of a design for the beauty of indecision. My arms swing the world in muslin it's lush and swirling and hitting our prayers with black shadows.

Wire for a map of pain. Palm underneath the weight of its own existence. Slip it where the mat is chained to propagation. The bear implies an embassy of onions, a turpentine Sunday opposite the reach of radar. The plumage of writing flows vague and verdant above the sleep of Big Sur where cypresses whisper philosophies of dirt to the sailing heavens and ants swarm the hills like famished opticians.

Climate caresses the wrinkles of the sea’s evident wish to create sensation, which is presumed to be assuagement, a solace for the traction of time. Wellness logs hover over the mucus of feudalism. Shadow plumage is drama, the narrative equivalent of starting a circus. Asia’s dream of an antenna tangle. Dagger spade needle soak.

And then he kissed me. He kissed me in a way I’d never been kissed before. The house, meanwhile, drinks its coherence from a cup of visibility. Visibility has a strong taste, a bit like Madagascar at twilight, or a banana split in Laramie, Wyoming, at about 7:00 p.m. on a Wednesday evening in late July or early August. Opinions stroll through the glaze of a distilled squint resulting in hawks.

This means that roots offer religious truths and paper. Anarchy seduces the Prince of Eggnog and gets naked in reincarnation. Incense hugs the distinction. The story proceeds by writing itself into tarantulas and performing a tarantella on the kitchen stove, which is distracted by an overhead fan. Infinity pauses to bark.

Bee rock browsed in a fever no one would tear up in a million years. Saucy astronomy. Cricket attic cantata muscle. Emotional vibrations rippling in an irrigation ditch. Thermometer during novels written in food budget randomness.

Meaning is sometimes a pillow in which I hear time splashing its hands on a sandstone nose. Sadness sloth. Conflagration twirling. Gun kitten gentle geometry. Prickly prose available for ebullient mustache hunts.

The tongue stirs streams of words which go into the air and do things. The little king lowers himself on a knee below the awning and anoints a knuckle. I worry about the blatant kit of hoping to go fast in a field today. The hot melt to flex a drinking noise. The border has trees and yet a lazy pin is overflowing the image of itself.

When somebody does you a wrong, do you stay out all night long getting drunk, or do you fold yourself into a prayer and roll into the soft oblivion of sleep? Don’t be mean. Don’t lose your balance. Stay home. Squeeze something.

Is it getting better? Gray reason echoes a background of stars and hangs from yesterday, a hum of sonic jewelry. Time is a tenable crust, a shoulder of sun, a street for walking around in pants. Dramatic ripple of well-being that pops into drapery and lets the light come in and destroy the obscurity of fear. Meanwhile I'm sitting here waiting for you to enter my dream.

Flooding metal will want to solder socialism together with symptoms of resurrection. Avoid the north and be a mouth to the table. Habitat stool of milky history, abrupt and wet as a jellyfish. Undertake a beautiful ash, a wagging chameleon handwriting, and multiply. The mohair clarifies the ribbons by an aberrant speculation based on coffee.

Choose a muscle, choose a bone. Take a soldier, take a king. I will be waiting in the hallway. My shoes want to go somewhere. The pronouns are at it again, bending the world to their purpose.

Well, it happens. One must compose oneself. Combine hopping with hoping, imminence with immanence, thyme with time. And there is always sand, always some form of motion to be performed, thumbs raised, gardens tilled, wonders to behold. The sad beautiful clock of the backbone, the embroidery of winds on sandstone.

I undressed my beard bow and threaded the breast of morning with the gospel of nothingness. The cathedral puddle will help us find the consonants we need to soothe our nerves. The swell in the paper is a benevolent face. It appears when sunlight enhances the hardware the elves have so craftily arranged on the table and the face of the sky begins talking about France, each lip a tumble into charm. The weight of the sand will indicate that the weight of the oysters has been splashed by too much ocean, which is what the fingers expand as soon as we enter the waves, and so must be entered into our records, numbers full of wool, creosote falsettos.

It is the force of the wind to be smashed up to the mound. Accidental pedestrian kettles make it feel like a diving board. The process is also a form of sigh, an admission that words occur like sounds in a forest not of my own making. Sauerkraut and radar are enigmatic forms of fez. Carry the planet to the barn where we can get a better look at it.

My nerves belong to sapphire. I'm lazy that's true it’s a theory of hope. Feeling is for making noise. The garden’s distress is dazzling at the top of the pool. The smell of heat on marble is soft as the memory of well-being, and so becomes an occupation, a sport like baseball, but with more pauses, more mustard, more hanging around the dugout.