Everything Is Alright

This need for inference is beginning to intone its inflation around vermilion, which pulses like beeswax in a voluptuous clairvoyance. My feet remain swollen during their punctuation. Buttons everywhere are an enthralling employment. I hold this sensation to be a critical dynamic, pertinent as wire through an umbrella. It floats some of the oddest reveries it has been my pleasure to indulge. The mind fulminates with the ambiguity of this moment, this juncture of form, and sets a canvas with spouts in eight inches of snow. As you can see, someone has ruffled my problem. Look at all these gardens in books. Who waters these words? Whose eyes bring them into being? Whose bruises argue with the dreams they create? Whose arms hold nothing as if it were bald, and attracted butterflies? I can’t say. I’m just here for the mints.

The congeniality of tea is a fulcrum among the lovers of firth and flimflam. This fabric of woof and warp inhabits nothingness like a poem ratchets a bolt on a bridge of sighs. I will answer to everything during a splash of cologne. Seclusion is a thing in the mud coughing up rubies of linguistic spinet. I attempt visiting a monstrosity as someone on the shore waves frantically. I saw a puddle in the street once perturb itself through a sorcery of mood and wind applied with the precise amount of languor. Meanings are garish and lyrical. They should be used sparingly, like mushrooms and honey. Sparrows notice anything in the sand positioned by toys and dowagers. Everyone crawls toward a novel perspective as if their lives depended on it. It’s a statement of power. Nothing is ever a problem, until it gets up and dances in a spirited ecstasy, chuckles a rascally syntax. 

I thermostats it all into a tidepool. All my secrets are pullulated by ganglion. I push them about in a crappy wheelbarrow. A mind with arms lifts a thought by the measure of its tongue and viscera. Think of it as a texture. Extrude a winch. Someone crinkles our constancy into a tension we later resolve with a chocolate reality. Savor this kiss after it ceases clattering across the floor and pondering our feet. I feel like an astronomer dipped in gossip. Please amuse this.

Bitumen includes all of my misgivings despite its indispensable taste. I enjoy wearing denim after a parody of wind. The pop of it. The astringency of it. I have seen a palace alter its gantry in the middle of a sentence, and carry it at death into a nearby cave. I turn and clench the surrounding space like a coincidence, which squirms inside my glee as it gets expansive. And everything is alright.