Season's Greetings

The season stuck out like a pulpit. Something had to be done about the patina. And so I went in search of perfume. The libretto rankled with iconoclasm. But the maggots shifted gently in their abstraction. Revulsion is in the mind of the caretaker. Sometimes it helps to duplicate a pity. Nowhere is it written that a newscast must master the slogans of odor. The truth is often so obvious, so glaring, so creamy and unanimous that it makes perspective creak with photographs. Must I always presuppose that the opacity of olives is something vaguely attached to reality, or is reality just a polyamorous demonstration of silverware? That’s when the stationary shop closed. Usury thrived in suede and the outlets turned seismic with zodiacal moss. No one is indifferent to polecats. The landslides are reflexive and good for our intemperance, which is just another way of saying paleontology. And to think the chickens are all nominally symphonic is pure distortion, the kind I like, the kind that sits on your lap huffing and puffing like a ventriloquist.

The flag is succinct as a lollipop, but the nation it serves is ponderous in loops of ribbon. Think of Christmas. Think of trinkets. The toys and shadows of despair. The stencils of tribulation. The mystic bows her head in thought and the judge’s gavel comes down hard on a macadamia nut. Judgements are preponderately gray. Which is to say, the punishment should fit the stenographer. Hysteria is largely subjective, though its trusses are pratfalls of elfin offal. Leather is the snivel of darts. Geometry in a corner solving itself with kleptomania. Cubes are just squares with fat corners and jet-propelled isotopes. The mustache is never just a mustache. It’s also a patronage of food snacking on the upper lip.

The millionaire’s suffix pepper has indicated my shoes. This means hatchets, which are ontologically necessary for decimals. It’s the little things in life that stain our sombrero. I command you to get out of the porthole and do something about the varsity. Inappreciable vapors congregate in the cadence I’m using to suffer the world in general. I do this for the sake of piquancy. The rhythms are modeled on prattle, the kind of resurrection supported by iconoclasts. I’m not domineering but I do like to drive tractors around in pornography and fling humidity at the judges. If your mind is underwater you should learn to sell real estate to the hermit crabs. I’ve had enough of your germination. The Seine was never sentimental. It was always bubbling with vulvas and showed us how to inseminate the afternoon with themes of melodious limbo.

It’s ticklish to spotlight a puny mischance if the geology is listening and the spice is viscous with news. Therefore, I must masticate shale. I shall shatter shale with sentences of sticky convection. The formula cries for guests. Please come to my patina. I grieve for the Pullman whose pumpernickel is floppy. It’s not the democracy that counts it’s the fireside chat. Let me be a trapezoid for the moisture of your hope. The tunnel has been hurled at the painting in my voice. Even the gymnastics will confirm the mutation, especially as it has been introduced by hors d’oeuvres of wry and epigrammatic wiring. The kind that separates light into colors and then walks out of the mouth dressed in words.

Most junk is decent. We just think it’s junk because the encrustations overwhelm the restrictions with preternatural aplomb. Introspection is the refuge of tans. I pray for the corona of the rodeo hog. Theories illumine the cerebellum with wallabies. I feel so waxy when I festoon the mince with nightclubs. Just blow that horn. The decorations will follow, passing through the firmament like overly medicated viceroys.

I want the Christmas trimming to resemble the entrails of a derelict explosion. The smell of paper adds a twist of stoicism.  Even the reptiles are agitated. There are too many taboos. Who needs them? We walk over the lava singing Neil Young songs. The search for joy mutates into a Gila monster. I embrace the silence of the muffin. And then put butter on it. I never fully understood the Futurists. Is it sometimes emptier to say something when nothing needs to be said or more fulfilling to get drunk & acquit oneself of inarticulate demands by falling out of your head? This isn’t the emotion I had in mind, but it’ll do until Bukowski slides down the chimney.