It isn’t purple. Shimmer, clink. Hair of bee. Deep in gobbets, prattle, heckling flesh, I move to settle. Take this landscape: quiet asphalt, smooth brocade. Cherry-balled tomato aspect. Hollow rhythms. Do you see?
If clarity were curtains, the answer could be fish. Desiccated, coruscated, red with old balloons. It would matter, all the same, that we should trifle, raze, deliver, choose our dearest choosing, freely scoot the moot. Say what you still. She who listens? Fission. Boulder, kettle, bone.
The locus of here is now. Oh, wow. Similitude, dude. Permutations on the pulses, tablature of same. Crow flies low. Give me hot money love, rumble and flux. In this, our freaky firmament, synchrony rules. Assemblies of dust and viridian mold. Dream schemes, organ grinders. Luminous glue. Can’t help myself. La, la. I’m like you and everyone else.