This Was Once a Yucca

This was once a yucca. Now it is words, and tides, and bark, and verdure. The abstractions were jokes, lozenges and ponds, places in which the sky does not appall and destroy earnings. This is not a light because that is not in its calm. Gingivitis serves the light. But what happened first? Perfume schools, a boiling ticket and a torment to be disturbed by which emotion is indigo or granite. Scourge meanings and themes. Jingle or a gun bangs and a noodle whirls. This makes technology easy and there is often a point to housing and feathers. The embrace of oblivion, the kimono’s harmonica. Paint touches the ensemble money. Drool fiber if the dance of the grebe is a riotous hit. Mint volume. The flare writhes in deeper attraction. Clasp Corso. I greet the demonstration. It hooks a private excitement. The genre burns. That is rather in the details carved and cooked. A violent control is first boxed than packed in thick mud. The odor of the novel is the path to mustard and its emotion. Infantry! Muscle personified to spin coordinates at a café or trumpeted like a box to sound the transformation interprets the dark. Choose the stew in the pathos knob that does a fluorescence, like Ezekiel. A moose above the keyboard enriches ocher. The taproot opposes boiling but accepts its mood. Infringement tied we galvanized it. The birth of thought is entertaining in a piece of cloth. The reckless strength of cognition will menstruate when it is squeezed. This is enveloped by a gaze, then dipped in haste. A structure of clay fired at a heavy metal produces scholasticism and subterranean fungi, usually truffles, a warm infrared that hobnobbing presents as a lyrical opposition to predestination. Talking is jungles. Ooze feeling as burning words. Steam. Abstract machine. Feeling is quicker than math. Death always has money. The grebe which complies in embryonic beams is still developing. Sugar is quixotic, a trapeze for Bach. Float the throat. Freight and farm not sent in succession but hurled into redemption. The Blob was equipped with maple to approach the sublime. The radical version elevated everyone. Emphasis slides for a bug. Massive roots have pasting there. Passion forms a key. Winch a willow with the moon. Wrestle a beginning. Travel by spectrum and growth. So which is it going to be: to develop an echo, or mirror a raspberry? I was lost and now odd is mutable and incognito. I must adorn everything with lips. I must indulge a feeling of seaweed abhorred in sweat and engine. The phonograph rattan has corners like codeine and slams the resonance of umber on a touch of thistle. Ascensions are prodigal when crawling to greenery. Development coppers. The air is dimes. Eyebrows harnessed to heaven. The glow of coal. The pink of willow. Daylight stabbed by description. The physiology of wind lengthens a seashore and ripples the sand. Blisters map the incense of palliation. This is floating. This is bitumen. This is acceptance and scorn. This was once a yucca. Proud and tall and potato chips.