(no subject)
Yellow-greens, sienna browns, black and blues engage with the blue of the sky and the silver clouds that stand there. Sesame seeds sing to you when you hold your breath and think of cotton candy. Ferris wheels surround you menacingly when dust blows across the dry summer wasteland. Broken wood and frogs are the things that define you. When the rivers turn yellow and the dark blue ice cream on your heart gets stale with freezer ice, inorganic rain will fall, and from that vantage point the world seems so small, minuscule, diminutive, asinine. Clouds look like a line of freckles and red algae blooms like cloudy lemon-aide, swirling and settling, unsettling if there were ever such a thing, and oh is there. There is a line to the toilet, a center to your head, a wall for the flowers, a sink for your tears, an eye for your apparitions, a mark for your silhouette; underwear for your cardboard cut-out. Your empty cups pile up in the corner of the world for lack of a better name; they convulse, repulse, revolt against cars and abandoned buildings and nightmares and nightingales, black streets and red stop signs at night. Your radiator fluid floods the gutters and goes down to the creek where badgers and minnows have their way with it. They eat it, devour the cold love inside it, skim the green off and make little animal drinks for little animal cups in little animal hands. Their nails skitter on the porcelain and tug at their uncomfortable hose. Water fountains form and dissolve, and all we're left with is a burnt out lighting-struck tree. We flee.