Saturday, April 9, 2011

Death Constitutes a Rejection

This morning, the legs of Jimmy Page lift three inches into the air. The air itself reminds us that water left our tears alone. Seas became a virtue of cessation, if we were so lucky. Cessation is the spot-on word for what Fu Manchu in his novelistic approach sought for perchance.

Jimmy Page now delivers a proper escalator to the next floor. This is the definition of some year on record. People were people back then, not memories or assertions. The Mamas and the Papas were invited to be terrific. They were rented, but the imprint remained. We will have to ask later, when later arrives.

Hours later, in monstrance, the scope assumes that Jimmy Page must have risen 2 more inches. Five inches of certifiable altitude in a world that denies the nearest mountain. Jimmy Page scoffs at alliteration, he can make any noise possible.

Hijackers felt distraught (historical note) at the ambiguous idea of liberty. Does that mean chocolate sauce? And how much exactly, prosecutor of exactly this very? The Mamas and the Papas sing “Monday Monday”, although they are dead.

When you were dead, did you love the 90s? Kurt Copay lost the adjustment and it was unhappy. Madonna of the 80s hung in there, 3 points and versatile entanglement. She has aspirated her name and exact longitude sans latitude. We need room for quibble. The group assigns. We love you, M, and the segment of the century you held dear.

Relating to Jim Morrison’s mouthful of vomit, do we have pure direction or simply a card on which someone wrote pasquinade? Bob Dylan lost a balloon named Bob Dylan Lost a Balloon. His asking price startled the left bank of waiting too long.

Jimmy Page postures guitar at knee level for the sublime off track betting of possible bag. Good, we will meet at 6 inches above sea level. Death has visited with proximate care. It’s now our turn to fulfill the ambivalent structure that leaves us in time.

Monday, April 4, 2011

Lowell or Botulism, How Does One Choose?

Creation limps to see the sea. It’s a lot of trouble. Verbs work, okay, and nouns mean something solid. Then adjective colours the spaces between and around solid. Adverbs declaim the speed, tho our presidential discoveries may not know this. I heard a preposition once, going towards, I think (a tree was involved). In Lowell, Massachusetts, literary punctuation mark, and historical byway, there were attempts at language. Mainly some factories, a river, and canals. We hear these instant things, furrows of effort, and Charles Ives looks at Aaron Copland. Less saturated is the sentence, when you carefully place the period at the end. The end must be indicated because ideas are formal institutions. Like slavery, and stuttering function of the griping class. Creation begins to see paragraphs, rewards of effort. Stanzas are paragraphs, make no mistake, just as the moon circles aimlessly while clouds obscure the facts. In Lowell, steeples fulfill the promise of skyline for a while. The tenor of some rot and buildings works into dismal demonstration of economic means severed by a few human beams. Their light wasn’t little more than. Under that bridge rushes important water over stony riverbed, with eager power developed from how that mass in motion translates into the firm belief in system. Electrify me, says Lowell, staunch for the bucket filled to a brim described by our betters. Someone plugs in the refrigerator and Budweiser fills the temporary home. Meanwhile, creation limps to the sea, like a plain book or a bowl of porridge set adrift with mentioning. This casting about, with words featured in every remark (almost), constitutes a property of which we are an element.