17 June 2009

Propafol Iridesence and the Tripping Twilight Noctilucence

Tonight, we're the sea and
the rhythm there
the waves and the wind and night is black

You wanted pictures, so here is my home, a single shadow traced in the light of a million burning suns, these edifices placed lowly along the the shifting reign, dazed in glib foreign veins of mercury plating along the agonal architecture hung from meager frames. Children have pasted in cowstail the lasting impression you've settled to, an inarticulate hue of fusion flung blandly bending at the event horizon gone of your tongue slung in attache over arms, but their blindness bleated the beading, singing sag sung songs slipping off the rungs of wandering. And at last they've a palace of teeth to chatter, and clapping eclectic sparrows' with waxwing waxing warnings, circle heavenly curiosity kicking at the shine of growing dreams waking in the copse.
Sometimes there is.
Parallel cabinets plying in hinge-drowned debate, and a strive toward blight leads blindly on the copper greened girls pouring on their skin all the mediocritical vanity horses play at in the beinn. Some hearts are true. And listening from their cloyed branches buried in the mud, you've lost your time clasping to the strands of trees falling in the flood; so, however you give up is nearly an advance of just how greatly I've given in, sailing the cities pressed along the palm of the sand. Some weight.
Good gravity abounds in these lost losing of ways stripped down in cancer and clammy civet-sewn kabals puckered with gin, just how you've never known, seeing Sundays fade in faze fortunes to drove rhythms culled in artifice. Found and following, bound, biblic, and lacquered losing beauty in the land sometimes thought flowered and forward, fabric bliss conspired to wear out. So threaded and bare through these eyes. A starker version of me painted in the ugly phrases set aside for all canthic, callous moities.

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