Sinew Milieu

A dynamic for floating has become goats. Even the sparrows are muscular. The tongue is an engine whose torrents are panoramic. It teases Bohemia. Bohemia gets up and walks away. The tongue continues to defend China. China gets up and walks away. All the cracks in the universe combine to create a sense of distance. The consequence is shovels and a noise produced under a science of meaning.

There are no lines in volume, only strawberries. I beg your bump to ride my words into heaven. There’s a map for my spices but none for my flavor. Please don’t eat me. The decorations are only shiny ideas with no other geography than Costa Rica. Inspiration unrolls my tendencies like a tent and then I have to ponder what it is that becomes vertical in me when I climb into a stimulation. What I cannot find in metaphysics I can find in sawdust. Just give me enough time to sort through the meanings of wood and what it intends to do with the embraces of the sky.

The answer, in a nutshell, is furniture. Everything else is sighs and muttering. I can always grow another mood behind the exploration of apricot. The painter’s tonic isn’t less mauve, but more painting. There’s no need to goad the energy in your eyes, or torpedo reality with asphalt.

I can choose to put a wedge of summer or a box of winter in this sentence, but the testimony will be entirely my own, and will consist of car batteries and popcorn. You can find me at the dump. I will be dressed in a gardenia with a look of pain on my face. I’m diving as deeply as possible into the magic of fluorocarbon. Please be patient. The tube will release its contents sooner if you squeeze it. Be gentle.

Flutter to the control beyond your ears. If it has affections for you, stay. If not, go. Crawl to the door and bang on it hard. It will be opened by an elf named Mutton. It will be natural to slam the door on the ensuing ovoid. The migration will occur in thirty minutes. Bring a friend.

I appear vermilion to my friends, but yellow to my enemies. All that is between is rhubarb. I could snatch a sigh by compelling this. Time sleeps behind my barn.

Life is messy, yes. But I will use life to convey my sense of liposuction. It’s elevated and noble to express what you want, but sometimes feelings heave from your chest in the form of geographies and smell of nipples and mirrors. These are our external wealth. Our inner wealth comes from concertinas, the joy of narrow streets, and dabs of brown which we hurry along into chiaroscuro as if Rembrandt himself were looking over our shoulder and the world was newly furrowed by big shiny ploughs.

We are airports, you and I. Let our planes land. Let our words fill the air with convoys of joy. And let our sinews expand to embrace the accidental nod of radar in our excursions. Lean into the wind. Toss the seagulls a French fry. Whisper hello to René Daumal. And a long goodbye to thrift.