Desperado Earthquake

Desperado earthquake consonants walking into flight, deliberately boiling. Tumbles are similar to parakeets. You can open your mouth and let out a mutation. Dreaming is soft. Nerves tumid with candy branch out into rain. This is a way to suggest buds breed ermine and space hastens proof of a river to give birth to a scribble. And property and war. Lines in poetry happen when a color bangs into feeling. Propulsion is this occurrence of mountain, this consciousness which is hysterical. For mirrors are a daily peevishness to rhyme a door with or find understanding and resurrecting it in rivulets. I must come to a striking conclusion and say that on behalf of my habits I’m throwing you a shillelagh. Perception is the opera that follows the reeds to the wasp that peppers the air with buzz and photosynthesis. Branches sip the stars and products dwell in that which follows tumbling. That is a pleasant way to say popcorn pops best in a house of punctuation. Rain notwithstanding. Substance and crying is first adopted then rented then pulled into anything resembling watermelon. Understanding texture is spherical or black and movement is possible like a hotel. But a color, a color with a little meat on it can blow like a trumpet and if it follows my pen into description it may also seethe with music. A wasp has eyes and wings. Glowworms are overtures. And walnuts have plenitude in them transformation figures and auks on a sweatshirt that happens to be sincere. Platters that overrun convolution with notebooks. Musical crocodiles everyone could invoke, establishments of line swelling out with music. Note the orbiting tongue. Cake perpetuates merriment. Ballast puddles the flash. Go, pinch fifteen goldfish or jail the rain. The palm keeps its gasoline housed in its arteries. Mulch dogged by detachment. Bronze proclaiming symptoms of paper. This means mustang. And inventions like desperado thyroid escalators. The calculus of calamity. The coffee tub in a walnut and a rocket in an opera. One might conceive of a puddle as a parable. The skin of space by hooking packets of sugar embraces the grapefruit. The bamboo is not an illusion. Incense is more indiscriminate. Cold differentials jettisoned into crystallization, just like Friday. You isn’t fictive the crabs are its art as if phosphor flirts with calico and thirst plays with a suggestion in the mouth, creating a mood of introspection, wrinkled Cadillac and each headlight a marvel of engineering. The language of morning is an angel of plausible grammar. My mouth crashes through a poem but I cannot get the lid off of the jam jar. The use of a jukebox is that when its circles are lakes everywhere turns chrome and shines like a song. Build a river and everything quivers. Go crazy in a tent and fables of rotation turn ape and alp and tulips. The jeep has principles, dude. Pay attention. Always have postage available. You never know when the sand is going to riot in your shoes and getting a few pieces of sound down on a piece of paper will obtrude from you like theory. The stars outside the city are delicate as the skin of grapes. The air is gentle as jewels of light in a TV studio. Go wildly pictorial. You can do it. You can have it all. It makes you want to hunker down and disintegrate. Discover peculiar hormones and then go physical in a bowl of cream. Paper does everything it can to resemble vinegar. The Rolling Stones fishing for polyphony. And here I am a fringe on the outskirts of time. Lumps of constant relation to things. Twilight palms and dissipation. Drumming and gravity and color opening its bolts to stroll through a howl overflowing with church. Age is richly ornamented with slow salvos of dirt from your manifesto, my dear Dada Friend. Yes, you, the one with the desperado earthquake consonants on your lapel. Twinkling and flashing as if some voices were thick and others more like horticulture. I have overruled your servitude. My rhythms are going north. I have enough serration for a mountain of hacksaws. Tom Waits huddled in a tug. Airplanes in his hair.