Drift

Drift. Engage a heaven. Humor Corot. Consider a crumbled year. Wear a house. The epilogue will have virtue if it’s effervescent. Therefore, luxuriate.

I is a dot. We extrudes. My candy glorifies the landscape. It has your obduracy. Your plurality. This is plunged in words. Play with the thought. Think about a lotus. Put it in an aggregate. Age is largely dribble.

This ceremony runs on pure redwood. Our cab is biased toward mingling. My gossip fails to detail the digestion of further particulars bearing on the planetarium spoons. There is a story about this called “The Arthropod’s Arthritis.” It stars Robert De Niro and Jessica the Sorceress.

The web is the result of a spider’s thought. The web is a thought. The strands are sticky, like words. Minds get caught in them.

Is this prismatic? Well, it should be. The mutiny is underway. We need every hand we can get. Including pertinence, cash, and back rubs.

The more you struggle the tighter the cylinder becomes. It’s braided, like most bathrooms.

Nocturnal emissions paint a happy picture of fire. The coffee is acting silly. It crawls around in my mouth like a violin. The usurpation is doing well. My tarantulas are completely binocular. A town in the Midwest has been flooded by a horde of descriptions, some of them wearing orchards.

Kineticism is exhilarating. You should try it. Move your arms. Move your legs. Move your bones. Move your blood. Let your bones and blood move you. Crack open. Empty yourself. Abandon all hope. Eat a pickle. Punish your sweater. Light a floor. Rain assertion on a senate.

Hysteria smells pretty. I wonder what the garage looks like. I hear the eerie cry of a bird flying over a desert. We’re surrounded on all sides by other dimensions. And quite possibly a lawn mower and boxes of Christmas ornaments.

My innocent dish, my smashed obligation, squat in this syntax and enjoy the distribution. If the verticality digests the horizon there will be thunder in our tea and aluminum in our tears. I have a flirtation with which to argue the yearning for heliotrope. It harnesses bats. The jump into clover. The harmonica’s flowers of sound.

My drift grows into stone. I can feel the metamorphosis about to begin. The urge forges itself out of enchantment. Pure enchantment. The way a stiffening turns almond, or a word sparkles with squirrels.