When standing in a garden of profundity
everything loses it's meaning...
and when stopping
to smell the
chromatic wisdoms
you are lost in the
overwhelming field
of academic poppies
causing you drift to sleep.
Alone and snoring.
Caught in the overflow of
delusions and allusions
and exclusions and illusions.
Transfusions of the bloodless
inability to translate what is gone.
Words elude you.
Friday, May 28, 2010
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Reach for the clouds. . .
Tickle your toes. . .
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lipstick on the teacup steaming bedroom eyes. glasses resting folded newspaper bookmarked novel. barefoot toenails pink lotion ringed finger...
You are a garden of profundity.
ReplyDeleteThree cheers for Noam Chomsky!
lol, jk...
aw, I'm Noam Chomsky!?! ;)
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