I Feel So Abstract At Times

I feel so abstract, at times, I can swallow a piece of cake and think of nothing but the bolero. It’s as if the glitter of creativity held the exasperation in all of us as a form of invitation. But to what? The swans I stuff with animation. The lake rippling with my breath. The tiny theatre I present to the world in the form of conjecture. The cast is diverse, and if my harness is soaked in oasis pins, I will spout the truth of collision, and get gaudy around the hibachi. Discourse is produced by the creation of an alibi, a serrated rod placed in the tarpaulin and pulled violently to ignite. For example, everyone laughs when Warren Buffet tells a joke at lunch. But what does it mean to understand something? Walk under an eyeball if you want to see something shaggy. Some call it an eyebrow, others an evolution. I call it a guffaw. There is a dimension of adjectives in which the heart beats against the churchyard, and a hypothetical summit stuns the structure of existence. The table locomotive chugs with infinite fury. But it must be balloons that write the smell that I beat on a fruit. Why otherwise would I maneuver the points I’m making? I’m sending a kiss to your junkyard by freight. This will prove that our brilliance shines like soot and that we mean what we do. There are small objects that I pepper with words if I feel haunted by a language. It's this kind of thing that gets me through the day. The greenery resists a myriad frizz and this makes me phonemic, if not bubbly. If there’s anything else I can do to make you feel technical, please let me know and I’ll bake us a tarte tatin. It’s like they say: brush a jingle push a wedding.