There are things that drift away like our endless, numbered days
Autumn blew the quilt right off the perfect bed she made
And she's chosen to believe in the hymns her mother sings
You comma, and I flux. Ten words and the wisdom once removed rings in enamel bells...
And I've lost what trains train thoughts on the lonely, existentiating, landless mass of metal. All tipsy spinning, topsy-turned in the quilting strut of strident sun, passing-push past the autumn grass across the laps leaned homewards. It's the barking-bite brumbling of exit-strategists that trundle gulp-thunk through incapacitant canals, an odd dreaming of dreamt dreams restirring the sense of soft patterns waking in guns. Come on over. Come stretch tongues.
Come lay by and whisper all the words in all the songs and all that your quaking soul ever sung. But pace yourself in this gloom, small rappings-tap-tap-sigh-snappings, portenting in fingertips the finite infiniteness that swam across your little, limbic lens. You go threading in feather beds twisting hands from cardboard landlords, posting bulletins in tin can lids undrank too often since your calendar forgot the months that March had made. Hard angles slip intuitively, all seeking in the already sought for, and, yet, you've found.
The clack-chink-thonk echo drawn chain reminds you the ride must go on, no show stopping velvet fall to catch your cuff, drop your flowers. You can still give in. Feed the darker feeler, the three freckles pulling round the dial, counting the mole-hills you've come to climb, feed the ugly secret you've stashed stone deep in your chuffing ribs, a diaphragm's push from puncturing all the gleeful emphasism you've placed on the rattled staff pumps of your aching organ.
Have a little heart.
The goal is disturbance, unremitted feasibility, uncompromising deniability, with such given floors falling from clefting-open clouds, twisting Escher-itically emphatic; given dream and reason. Plan B. Also known as. Can cantons peal out of the basket, weave fish from desert stones, flap over flap cutaneous climbing, a slim song ravelling ravenously, clinking limbicly along her tepid tongue. Clack. A suck-thunk-hum [clack]. Click. Like ebony honey humbling mumbling soft babble babel language, reaching an amber hollow coitally coiling. Venetian in the cruciform crawling, sprawling in fountains falling spawling, a fatal carnal claw.
Oh, cat, feline in sundry-drawling respite, come pleasure and grating pure pouring prowling from crook and sweeping tails, slinking in sybillant curls of fawning teeth lipping tongue. Kill kitten. Kill. gracious moonlight.