Tuesday, 6 July 2010

Word Salads

Almost ripe, deep in the promised garden, their heads encased in dirt, their hearts like stones tickled up by frost. Paragons of desire, drowsing in their fantasy of growth, ornaments of that gleaming truth that quietly enervates an over-wildness of dreams. Promises breathe forth from this sanguine endeavour. Drench of a summer rain, heavy in its condition, drunken with trustful energy, while the ground sweetens with a sugared understanding.

The air is fresh, full of promises, as strong as wine, and within the hot manure let us observe the sprouting seeds: do seeds dream? If so, they dream that turquoise is the colour of the sky above their lair; they dream their skin blisters the tongues of their shoots escaping; a harvest of berries breathes in the sun.

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Love is an eternal fusillade, an amalgamation of struggles. What does God's trowel represent, but the opaque guile of the gardener? We follow all thoughts, explode solutions, cunningly, with acumen at times, less clever when the night seems full of hazard.


Still, when our courage lapses, then temerity is needed, for frolics; for to lick those influences into harmonious shape, always with the glossiness of the perfect vegetable: ripe, not an hour early nor late in picking.


You and I, woman and man, lie in repose, upon an ocean of whim - we think, systematize, but remember at last to embrace. Our song is not sung by a sly pedagogue, but is sheathed in the bulb as the temperature of the sweet soil rises.

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