So save these precious moments
For the child behind your eyes
To find the thing's we
Lost along the way...
It's heart-ending, some time in the snow and veritable oscillations of the coal fire sending subtly-blue-fleece-burnt-flares. Carbon stars of oscultation.
It's heartrending this habeus corpus of laminated life beneath a plastic cap and green glass bottle, wrapped, one day degenerates for miles. There's a stone cold ozone caffeinated by intracellular micro-lies, small whispers tidaled into fools of coronary, episodic, poolside curio-shop. Come in.
Come closer. No seeking, no sin. We're manger-bound for sorrow, but, as all kind and feel, they transverify the Titian color to chords for sad-song, ambi-flex walkers hiding in the vermilion doors elsewhere in our mind. I don't like the taste of fluorescent. I don't like this jangle-band brown, this maritime gin still.
This argon djinni. A rapping stutter of stalled steps arch, eddying behind white gas-masked labels leaking out. A la scala aria librett-ised for deaf inconjugates. Leeching out.
I see coronas, halo-ic invertebrates, like joint mice jittering slowly from sleeve to red-lip ran fear. These tetanic angels like midnight horns wail-on to train yard rhythms, blues-y fashion throbs of oversexed adipose, overdense antipas-to.
The old, red-wine stains bleed an ascetic stigmata through cab doors riding sullen streets carrying indefinite articles jostled with sand-dunes and sand-dreams arranged zedibetically. Thus is advertisement as silk-sable-sunk pavement waves beneath the bail-out echoing in rollover dimerised binding, a lyrical-launched-language of pain and aggravated gravity.
Push. We'll out bamboo in cane-chewing chivalry, leveling the spastic, clock-coded limbs akimbo in hives and mud-jungle levity. Here cymbals abound; from ð to three sided, trapezoidal, god-head cattle we bathe in luminous tin-clash chasms all-ignoring of shangra-la, bearded yaks. They look much like "yokels" in an -ese yet-to-be.
So seen-countries choir twilight Roman-ants, small peddlars of ten-x confessions, infinite convictions. Much like saracens in musical tints, there's belief piggy-backing off their rent, parasitised on neoplastic styrofoam lining felt-drawn toilet humour and puritan ranch-style homes. Amen-ed.
N.B. N.S.F. J.W.C. Over. Punctuate.
Abbreviated destiny. Briefly.