Isolated in the crowded interior of my brain: Someone in here put on Chopin, theres an alligator smoking french cigarettes, a manifesto of taciturnism, a discarded recording of The Melody of Doorknobs, never-ending carpets of velvet jade, chairs wandering into a dialectic of wallpaper, lamps burning like ripe pears, doors enveloped in corridors, young women peddling freckles (1 for drowsiness, 2 for malaise), passers-by offering drinks of their memory, sub-departments of compartments, a valise filled with introversion, a thick scarf tied on a bar stool, a telegram-sandwich in a typewriter, partially empty glasses of moments, a bereft of cats measuring reel-to-reel tapes, and me... sailing in a sieve.
Posted on: Tue, 25 Nov 2014 08:29:16 +0000
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