El Egg

The eyes shall have two purposes and neither plain to see. Tons of fuel. Feuilleton. The three am birds, those with thinking eyes. The width of night they slice. As oiseau, so shall you sleep. Nothing that is not driven into it. Where the pronouns go for anonymity. Tear through the incognito argon zoom. Dolly-shot. Dalí and the invalid eyes. There must be a force that makes the sentences connect. Just because something has entered the popular imagination does not mean that the imagination has suddenly become popular. Tourniquet of style. Mortality lapping on the shores of Aruba. Is it time to be sentential? The sentinels have Roman noses. I cannot read you even though it is written all over your face. Birds pocketed in pipes, to stuff dreams there as a counterforce. Volts force the muse electrocuted. Get bent. They seem too green on the way to guess enemies. Do the writing. Inkstand forms a mediation. The sitar poses for a still life. Casting whistles in the drink of idiom. Day is a kind of casette recorder that night rewinds, and you hear the sound as undifferentiated. Available wherever papyrus is squelched. Ambience plies a German revolver. Combat replication over the great divide. Lily shot-putters. Each depot is a deposition in blue. Will you remember exactly what you said when you were deposed? By any other name would lie completely unthought. Let us now stripe the kinoscope. And then from an unbended river, the captioned mind composes a bit of capsize and topsy-turvy. A wrinkled brow beneath that hat of a skull -- caput mortuum -- signifying the wrinkling within. Ample arpeggios of discordant progression. The eyelet from the shoelace. It is o.k. to write again. The brain cells are analyzing themselves until they can talk themselves to sleep again. Clustered to bendingness. Sleep returning to the fold. Leftovers from the beatitudes. Sonneteers voluntarily decide to write uncertainly along the lines of this stray ashtray. Thinking of ammunition as a saintly term. Without metaphors life itself would continue to be what it is not. The quiddity of proto-quotation. Absolutely emblematic creation. Copyright and trademark. Belting out the quotas. This edible double gallery. As to suppose the benchmark crimson. In search of a more poetic ideal we come to a word from our sponger. The pause read as a thresher. And if "pause is the ear" can't the play go backwards? Either Macbeth or Die verkehrte Welt. Dreaming that dream where you pun on time and take yourself back to sleep against the grain of speed. The solace of shoelaces. Crafting from behind an equinoctial notion of the somersault. Jumping to conclusions as a true methodology of beginning. Restoring the pantheon.