You too can be a scamp or, better yet, a boutonnière! You are young like a rock. Your flower shares a voice. Ox Eye, Shasta, or (listen up!) True Daisy bring pronation and extension for and towards the utter eye of fields. All applied as grace note at the musical bar. As such, an asterism made among empyrean creatures in the space of just your kindness. Lark on! The flower fills the bold use of day with the interest of colour. And white petal itself serves no single colour but contains them all. All this found in the village mark of flowers. Language makes and makes again, like forests in our time. Flower lifts assonance to song and the ordinary acceptance of astonishment. See Emily Dickinson there in the select company of words. See the world from the towering sunbeam. Cultivate some garden beyond exchequers and the grisling count. Make sun while the hay shines. This packet flies!
The aliens merged with diastrophism. A rush thru the funnel with Dick Cheney prompts a reply, don't you think? The mud of his glance places real time constancy in jeopardy. We really roll with the punches, tho Cheney's eyes tend to ignite squids. His armpits repine with a patient whoosh that smells like blueberries, eternal boundfulness of Dick Cheney brain. In the meantime, like river flocks, we steal a porch. The utter eye jets of the alien enterprise writes an interregnum. We knit a scarf called socialism, which appears on tv as the gravelly person on that show every night. Cheney hams it up. Secondly, dream manifests in the sunlessness of rectilinear retreat, the storm of space. Driven noises suffuse patents. Claims of Obama become structure. Ideas receive graves. Back in the future, where we crowd the bed with details, a fire starts to smell like blueberries. Blueberries include the idea of porches, and shatter indifferently against chalk lines on sidewalks. The peop...
Comments