Monday, June 11, 2012
Large urns arrive at the instance of shoreline, reminiscent of mean-mr-mustard on black culottes A world without end. Sandifiably dandified, Scalettature è una parte della moderna Vedono la foresta . . reminiscent of the lines of yellow mustardy black culottes and sky and hills. Lines. World without lead. Parroted comic sounds. Bounding through borders of liquidation, the forest intermittently above. In lines of the sun/ fluttering rouge. Large urns arrive. Up and down.... Through them the liquidation order, searing the forest intermittently. Over. In sunlight fluttering red leaves. the wind, the car, the flashing of the forest again. Jaggedness is so a part of modern that they sense the forest, but can't take it with them. You, all of you, are driving toooo fast. Too fast to catch & reflect on yr shiny but wan impressions. Large urns. Feelin' groooovy/ si! Si, Scarlatti. . . Scalettature è una parte della moderna/ Vedono la foresta, vedono la foresta, vedono la foresta/ Vedono la foresta, Vedono la foresta! Vedono la foresta! The lone telepone pole, the forest, the lines are singing, blinging, replicating by/past (whoosh!) much too, much too quickly for human consumption, they have resonance, rsounding, re-sound, more sound caroms, rebound at the heavens expense, with pageantry. . . In the land of frescoes the half-tone is King. Trumpets trumpeting. Blaring. Battered shattered, blitzed. Sandifiably dandified. Airflow like an old Chrysler, like a new river. Rising and sinking lines of blue and black and green, and sheen. . . You can hear it through the whine. And, and… Listen up! if life’s not worth living, grRRRrRRr: know I’m sayin’?