i’ve just got all these cobwebs and i’m shaking the nerves off my hands. trying to piece together some sort of jigsaw puzzle of words; all these windows leading into some kind of theoretical or modular nightmare. or not nightmare, more like a tangle of thread just zooming around and getting caught in the cacti.
this then that and that then this. and on and on and on. just plonking one word after another into place. smashing them in with a hammer if they don’t quite fit, only to find, at the end (lord will it comes soon!) that garden gnome’s left eyeball is floating upside down in the air, miles into space.
cream soup, or cream of the crop soup, or cream of the harvest moon soup. it’s all beautiful, whatever kind of soup it is. i’m craving a kind of soup that will steam out from that overheating belly, watch the tears fall and the drops of sweat scatter about the room with every wagging of the head. don’t fall asleep inside your soup! there’s not enough room for peas and carrots and leeks… and you.
even so, with all that, i can’t keep from obsessing over fantastickal things. the words written on the page that drill right into the middle of my brain, and of all things merlin, why does that have to crawl? feel the daze of sleeplessness spin the creatured turntable right-round, see its mesmered claws reaching out, sliding into focus and away, until that bubble-gaze just pops.
hot dog! i sit and watch (not now, earlier. or later) my fingers paralyzed, sitting, and where’s my brain at? maybe gone out for a coffee and a scone. the kind with a chunk or two of chocolate stuck in the middle (yeah, but how’d they get the square of chocolate inside of there, unmelted like? but hey, now i know it’s not a scone i’m thinking of at all, but that french pastry, withal that flaky and etc.) where’s the will to type or talk with those hollow, aching fingers?
jump in and type, fool, there’s no harm can come from it. no harm that’s worth speaking of anyhow.
(Orange Power by The Falcon Project)