Daffodils Interspersed

I want to cover my hands with long white operas, and they should tell tremors, fissures so conniving and with black wine-tongued beetles crawling, sucking as if it were their children before them, if it were their own cauldrons of vegan meat, bloating and maybe, blood can appease them to, they shall dive into my bed, as if they were synecdoches of sunsets hyperbolized into passion, to be consumed whether it it were a whale, with white hared daffodils aging out like autumn’s rain or a vine violet snake breathing through its untouched skin (having only known caves that abstract through curtain heads), convincing itself that tails have corneas with coral irises and tangled hair in places where fire is breathed through, orange fangs clawing through indignant yet sentinel air, its cupidity cured through clusters of lithium, balanced diets, romanced hypnosises etc etc

My mind and all minds have a peculiar quality then, to strive off from atlases, maps, to map out when we’d morph into ligands with accepting rheumatoids, since simplifying our fractured selves makes us more nonplussed than before, perhaps standing next to a loved one on an upside down trivet, sensing the benefactor of the chronos rush through you past seconds and chewed off hours, making us feel as if time panicked through our own slumbered vegetable selves, but I am no vegetable, not an erudite cucumber deriving from the cessations of troubled pasts, trauma we keep together as rancid inheritances, but we twitch and strain daedalus inching out all seaweeds, flannels of shy blushing air (clouds of sorrow) and people do need their own ounces of breaths, like little pen holders singled out for each other, a dark tonsil shaped like a dead pitch black corn tree, its trunk hollowed out, for to even feel winters or the dead look of your mother as she loses hope in you, hope in finite things, things that rotate and try to latch on to you, fleas of the minute hand’s heart can make anyone nauseous and feel sad with ermine.

Do we not carry these atlases, their little monarchies through our meditations with the Gregorians? Hasn't this obsession with the frail of music and it stems, peddles with cactuses and slowly return to the swamps and dear old marshes. Nietzsche being omelette, forth genesis of music lies at the trails of its tongue and vacuums that lay between pinches of tunes, fraternising what is art and isn't.

Being choked and thus continues the syncope of psychdelia, my dear friend with the hyperactive perversions whom from backwards, a raven distilling a bamboo seam, psychdelia in the sense, hypochondria for a blest mind, fretting infinitely with swishing frequencies

I linger sometimes, as folding hazelnuts do, socialized through the masochist affluences of deterring irony: such are these ways 

Inventing derailments from mappable mental symptoms, such as if the pedants- of blood moisturize under your skin, leaking atomic claustrophobia dressed in ironist, uneven, the expansive avant garde, picturing of haemorrhage.

The falsetto stringing on the thump of the heart, as it creeps up to the brain, is how tonic creatures are supposed to feel like, catharsis being Apollonian was never a dreary ratchet, derived with little steps,  first steps taken by your babies in your bladders, they have tandems bloating the cupidity of synergy, and yes one can get all sorts of chondriac with swallow, what you swallow being amethyst cells you found reeking over your ceilings.

It's a brilliant thing really, darkness have made our bill splattered minds into starving antithetical diagonal seeking wretches, dreaming of pills, magic coffees, to juice your mind back to sedition against  termites colonizing with Thanatos, for they are milked mirror pork sentinels, swaying your heart in their own drunk lipid ways, nectar saturating through a pancreatic disdemeanour which hyperventilate into chromatics of evanescence(the void).

To stop paraphrasing the intermittent palsies of the very figure you are lent to assume curvature ~ these vanities emerge from voices, they whale through, and make you double think the ailments that have dawned on you through countless monologues of intraverted drenchments into what life is and what it all means, as you feign through seriality taxing on you as if ambrosia perchance, maddened the gross of skin that passes for peach tantrums smelting into lakes of actuality ( or perhaps a leeway formed, through which thoughts that tranquil pass into gaping holes and rasping bottoms, just waiting to be left alone, for these are blackbirds, daffodils craving much much less than solitude)