(no subject)
a SCREECHINGly tall man wearing a dusty red velvet vest and absolutely no pants at all, with white hair coming out of his ears, nose and around the top of his eyeballs
WAILED at me as I was nearing the plain of equivalence.
He probably said some important things, but my mind was elsewhere.
The plain was gray.
But not in the literary way.
Not in the marsh way, or the moor way, outside and beyond the secret garden, a battlefield to the thistle and lonely moor coloring.
I make lack of my sentimentality for apple picking and wild flowers, it is for once a conscious decision not to think of these things,
instead of having already forgotten them.
This gray was more...cinematic. Spectacular. Of necessity. Of consequence and absolutely.
It sheened, with a hint of a gold gown or Garbo red lips, a innate hint of color that was awash in gray tones.
It mishes with Da Vinci sketches.
Hello waterfall...bubbling pools of Leonardo whirls...hello you beauty always in ink.
My arms stretch wide in this field
Wrapping warp speed
breaking sound barriers and color frequencies
Somewhere, miles away, it is raining on my wrist.
Somewhere, ages ago, something bit my left pinky.
But also, somehow, I was kissed on my back.
Loved in the dirt.
Dirt back kicked in my face.
Hello lover frequency. Hello equivalence.
Somewhere down the line, the cold air knocked off my limb in frost.
Maybe it was around where blue frequencies lay low and still.
Back at my core, back in the field, everything is still utterly gray.
Utterly unbalanced, unstable, un.
I watch a bird born, molt, chip, fall and fly, in seconds.
Almost immediately.
WAILED at me as I was nearing the plain of equivalence.
He probably said some important things, but my mind was elsewhere.
The plain was gray.
But not in the literary way.
Not in the marsh way, or the moor way, outside and beyond the secret garden, a battlefield to the thistle and lonely moor coloring.
I make lack of my sentimentality for apple picking and wild flowers, it is for once a conscious decision not to think of these things,
instead of having already forgotten them.
This gray was more...cinematic. Spectacular. Of necessity. Of consequence and absolutely.
It sheened, with a hint of a gold gown or Garbo red lips, a innate hint of color that was awash in gray tones.
It mishes with Da Vinci sketches.
Hello waterfall...bubbling pools of Leonardo whirls...hello you beauty always in ink.
My arms stretch wide in this field
Wrapping warp speed
breaking sound barriers and color frequencies
Somewhere, miles away, it is raining on my wrist.
Somewhere, ages ago, something bit my left pinky.
But also, somehow, I was kissed on my back.
Loved in the dirt.
Dirt back kicked in my face.
Hello lover frequency. Hello equivalence.
Somewhere down the line, the cold air knocked off my limb in frost.
Maybe it was around where blue frequencies lay low and still.
Back at my core, back in the field, everything is still utterly gray.
Utterly unbalanced, unstable, un.
I watch a bird born, molt, chip, fall and fly, in seconds.
Almost immediately.