And the Kitchen Sink
Is hell in my head? Maybe it’s just wandering down the old moon path, crying feverishly to break though the glassy ribbons of ,.. For crying out loud happens no more often than crashing. Parsimoniously efficacious. Dry, arrogant tears showering dust and destiny, caught in the frying pan cuz you forgot to stock up on pot. Bam. Hit’s you like a glove. Flight is golden when site is bold and time is no more than cold ends to dream of and friends to scream of and drops of triumph leave the eyes of giants and go crashing to the forest floor. Water falls beneath copper bells that ring again of death’s curious lore. Creating hystery wrapped in mystery seeping through the rotten pinewood floor. Branch compliance with grants of your aunt’s crystal tea set catching the door. Below the bottom the top is found and tells you merrily that black is brown. Here and nowhere comes pounding mohair and finally something blinks. Finally, we know what something stinks. It’s everything, and the kitchen sink. Everything. And yes, that includes the ever evasive, now pungently pervasive, garden variety kitchen sink.
posted by Lauren @ Saturday, March 11, 2006
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home