Adjoined at the lips, not at the hips. I’ve never known honey as sweet as this. Watch as she spins winds which blow honeysuckle perfume to the tune of a violin. Lanolin. Sweet linen, fresh from a lily-pad bath and hot brick press. Flowers, growing on molecules, new universes birthing auto-pilot protons, forming smiles on the basis of relativity, because, relatively speaking; I am made of smiles. All I see is joy. Looking through a microscope, the hope it brings to see myself on basic level. Re-balance binary struggles; Connect v.s. Disconnect. So too the hips, inspired gyrations, healing nations by releasing love, or laughter, which even loves to laugh at the lackluster.
Thunder and lightening frighten one another, storms roll in, within it to win; puts a spin on desert’s droughts, just about over. Clover! Fresh dew, damp moss. H20 shows ferngullies and pygmy catfish highway routes with exits to adventures, documented by pools puddling, side by side, like veins looking for blood, hugging every occupiable piece of space-time continuum, eventually ending. pending. Whether or not it has momentum to go forward, forward…forward; for, as water runs on an angle, so too must man see many sides in order to progress.
Only a coward whose fear of death is greater than his dignity can comfort himself with the thought that in time his body will live in grass, a stone, a toad…To see one’s own immortality in the life cycle is as strange as to prophesy a brilliant future to the case after the costly violin has been broken and made useless.
Coney Island kinda draws an image scrimmaging between sights I’ve seen, with beer and glass, and new goals kept with cheers and ass. Brass buckles chuckle shorts, tight at the waist, and taste of tides in which several hundred pounds of seaweed has died. Woody Allen wannabees watch moonlit kissers and wish viscerally for miserably romantic missions to complete themselves, with shells and horseshoe crabs in company. Half moon Honolulu luau. Clothes kept ashore. Sand between toes, with water’s flow, knows tides inside, and resets preset attention spans to softer hands and plans of peaceful recognition of primordial ascension from the aforementioned Mediterranean. Third wheel, first drive appealing. Ceiling fan, Northeastern cans of Coors Light and broken shards of fright, fight for territory on the night spread, sprawling dread, so inviting. Fires work their way into the horizon, diving Red blooms zoom through my memory, century old, knee deep in sea creeps, with French pressed nails on my neck, checking pulses, passionately pecking prior to skinny dipping demonstrations. Giggling gyrations. Pyromaniacal laughter sets flames to dames I once fancied. Like candied, coated, Prozac placebos, the neat-o treaties we’re writing entice a sentimentally branded, beaming smile. More numerous than these tiles. I think I’ll stay awhile and weigh the weightlessness of bliss by fistfuls. Never again will I miss such jewels.