but of thistle thorns, weaved together with tooth floss and chicken wire to provide a form. He could be seen riding his horse at dawn in his cheap red parka and red wing boots. His cigarette occasionally falling out of his mouth, drooping, for a few seconds on the tip of his lip before, dropping on the ground. His hand is tired and asks to rest a few bars. The faces in the crowd; a herd of multigenerational buffalo, ghosts and those suspected of being ghosts. His music sounded as a whirlpool sunrise (which is currently associated with burt's bees): a carbon atom that only wants to bind with itself. Each song, a geometric form with no dimensions; brilliant diagonal deviations from the sine wave sparkling sonic landscapes. An unheeding quality of unresolved dissonances and spiral staircases; wrought iron (U know the kind that one shouldn't slide down): produce smoke rings outside rubber bands and glow sticks.
She asked him once about his stay in St. Louis. He replied with a smirk, "elephants with giraffe ears outside the DMV." Heavenly sent messages of poverty stricken faces growing out of hair strands. His reply caked in mud and semen. Outside was a shape of people crowding around a dead, cloaked woman holding a pigeon's head; grief stricken the CEO jumps for a snow-cone instead of his usual bomb-sicle.
His sore thighs clash against his horse's ribs. Teeth slashes and knaw marks on his neck in the shape of a pedal. As the sheep join the buffalo and supposed giraffe: his nose glistens with sweat and neon. Floating anchors above a frozen plateau of steel and ice cream cups, suspended from ships of glory and wood gilted blood, she descends the stair with an elegance and art such that her fall at the end made sense. To a select few in the back, it sounded as a snare-hi-hat crash on the fifteenth beat of a sixteen beat cycle. In a tune that has lasted too long for significance and thought provocation. Ending with a gay clap from a participating audience clad in waffle irons and pink perforated paisley coats. He reached for a stick of gum but found his pipe instead. The dresser drawer is ajar. Those socks rest in peaceful tranquility among snot-kerchiefs and tighty whities.
He steps out on, stage to see his audience clad not waffle irons as expected but in pancake batter and muscle relaxants smiling at the man to their right. Whose rosy cheeks only speak of rum, popsicles, and weed. She; craftsman houses line streets of trees pretending to be a canopy. His fourth book spoke as if not dissimilar to antique prototypes of photo-steel and rubber band collections.
While itching waves and heat rashes on ghosts of children and former lovers, she asked a question "when is the nearest train?" His reply now in solitudinal reverence..."about ten past four inches." A Brando type kiss ensued on the dawn ridden plateau.
An entire life in a pair of socks, locked in a golden barrel of smoke and goat piss. She later asked him of all of this. His reply in stuttered tears and rainbow glares, "staircases called, asking for your plea. Whats 'all of this'?" Then, a clattered hatter asked for a smoke with no teeth in it. "He asked why?"
"In gloria ex libris!" She exclaimed pleading with the bar attendant. He stepped on stage and found a familiar broken bottle around a sound cable leading to the mike stand and back to the mixing board (which is connected to the cash register). He will scream again in tongues understood before a syllabification was present in the human vernacular.
One can sometimes listen to the stars and hear the sinking specter of demise and hair growth, but the real sound lies underground in warming, hotting, climates of reaction vs. stagnation.
She shot him a melancholic grasp with an eye full of thorns and blueberries. A customary "see you later" was delivered in a punch on the back. Followed by a scene of lovemaking censured from public consumption. He left with rose petal feet and wicked grins of unleavened bread. The room immediately followed the return of the water thief and his three brothers Mario, Giuliano, and Gretchen Bigsby. He asked for forgiveness upon his return, only to find an empty air mattress and a stuffed dresser drawer.
For the first time in his life he felt like chocolate and coffee, starving for water, asking for coals. He asked a question facing the wall expecting the answer in return, which came hours later in the form of a post: she marked him as dead in the group and as an insubordinate buffoon. Which he confused to be a compliment given the bit about the cute baboon.
He sleeps in his socks, on a bed of wool covers and women's slips; penny-rich and floating.
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