Saturday, October 4, 2014

Tender Branch

Comatose regions fit us with plenty. She died on a day called Saturday. Not making this up. A perfect sentence tells us something while the clouds.

In an effort and surprising, the gleam when death says word is magnificent. An approach, while we are bodies, and the trying means love.

A stanza is a break in the action.

Action is change. The next moment, or the sentence that says so.

The previous three moments were attached to the one 42nd back. Do you understand time too?

A sentence is a complete thought, completed on or in the field. Time is a magnet or fence, it could also be a tree.

We are people, mostly, and we enjoy our tree.

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Can’t Sing. Can’t Dance.

The South Pole, land of peach and shaving cream. The North Pole, fun sunless bung. The creators of misery arrive, improving angst with measures of norm. This is the cleric’s realm, the idealist base, the ringing bell.

In season as the forces of good and evil stop to talk, boiling made frozen heart. Poetry becomes a synonym for something else. Metaphor breaches exactly right Republican, downwind the Democrat doubt. Free range chickens.

Inasperate the fertile words of snow and structure, kinds of population, miniseries to see. Ocular profile of the silly season behaves badly. Western culture has long positioned itself as distinct from Antony Gormley. It's time to rethink the purpose of misunderstood.