Blurred Bucolic Freeze
A
breath of factual air comes squeaking down from palisades of sumptuously misty
valves, plopping newborn overlords in each of twenty oblong empty delegations
to floral jungle symptoms, chugging off-whirled additives of phoneme federation
flicks in rusty village swab return to uncanned city daydreams.
Cars
fly by in cold-hearted grinning phase of lusty probation pleas, settling for
random graveyard lines of facial ticking time-balm stew perusal nods to dialectic
phonebook memoranda, licking encomia from raw philately.
“Prawn
to ringtail hooky-splaying core,” Kabuki whispers into old savant of earphone
peppercorn arrival stump, snowfall crazed behind a skyline whiz in sold
serrated consequence of neural implant patient fees slid casually beneath a
setting sun.
Anonymous
automata smile bravely, churning outer orbitals to lewd electric density of
plot purgation polity, damping massed enthusiastic cholera to stippled stem
cell surgery replacement creed of lookalike contestant rinse in blurred bucolic
freeze.
Whisking Lola
It
all comes down to lightning, a bit of transmigrational delay, and expertise in
temporary icon change from straying bobcat numbing sauce to hairline figurine
replacement, turning vowels to verbs of crawl rotation split parade, pausing
for an asterisk to form beside a record player’s seminal arcade of oddity in
rarefaction’s timed belief.
“The
light is dimpled, air on half auxiliary schism,” she reports in nameless
disarray, unanimity intact. Syntactic wind encircles her, inflecting futuristic
emblems of drawn bespattered dusty streets with careworn eyes of rundown
hourglass perusal, stranding an entire planet in lucid noise.
I
hear a distant majesty of equal voice ferocity, spun softly in the simplest
alibi. She deftly slips tomorrow’s neural imitation scream to feral feedbag forelock
soup of kitchenette implosion scoff.
“Codger
that, wheeze a sloppy hovel by-and-byway fresco scimitar to pure enfolded nylon
sleep,” comes scratchy but abruptly clear from statement of Authentic Whirling
Western Slam, the lonely tower in this unpardonably obscure sector of
trance-galactic megalopolis induction quarantine.
Slanting
grates reopen skies of blackened coal dust eyes, flashing speckled cobalt iris
wink from deepest meld to inmost cavity of fraught cacophony to mined mentality
aflame, whisking Lola from identical effervescent vault of recognition blush to
scintillating ecstasy.
No comments:
Post a Comment