Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Purple and Yellow, Read

Sunrise flows over the slump of earth. Pressing sward becomes the vocable of the next sentence. Dreamy modern nights skew the season into interest and capaciousness. It all settles as theory, deeper than a lake.

A lake conveys the sense of towns floating into clouds. Those breezy loosestrife that purple the marshy way blur with past sunrise and may do so again. Statutes of goldenrod begin their intention to fade, simplicity is the canon. The rosy sun, gifted with maximum, engulfs the mending mood of this engagement. It is morning when you see this.

Sunrise flows into the mood of setting. The day begins a sentence with scruffy beat. Tuned cars and traveling folk dilate with deadline. A cup of coffee, never forgotten, slays the literal details of resistance, just as the marsh exudes another stratum of elegiac memory.

Now a sentence, slumped with poetry, inters a slighting seed. Each word, posited and passing, becomes the best love possible. Syllables gently nurse the options, and tremendous season sends a flake of cloud.

Sunday, August 24, 2008

Magical Mysterium Towards

Plausible is the scuttling sound in rays from a drifting presence of sun. Green from regular trees blooms on a modest boat of feeling. The people, in their arc, treasure something of very rascal plain. Sour common of lived places reject the sward, sometimes, and a language of bells ensues. The Beatles struck a rock of mired glow, worded with refracted topic sentences and a tiresome song like “Ballad of John and Yoko”. Season blends into tree bark, dogs lead an earnest trust, and the usual kids stumble on the grass. Reason stops the uniform when sunlight backs away from the stage and words are more like shadows. People are as old as their feet, or stout chairs in the presence of god. Weird instants replace other instants, merging with hard balances. No one wants to sleep now, but the emblems fizzle. Blunt objects restrict themselves in the time it takes darkness to spell certain names. Keats died for no one’s sins, in the cluttery days, with a wink towards some transit of station. Then poetry subsumed intention, shares of the new model were offered, and the process turned a corner. Now all cats climb onto all tables, dogs continue to die, and the Beatles will not really disband. The varicose veins of these impressions start to make sense, tho making sense, itself, is a duffer in the park. Kindly dance along those lines now, which have been freighted with feet in time.