The Cure

All the orchards bloomed with innocuous parties, there loomed a large and unfriendly table cloth above their freshly opened eyes. They had expected a wild night of fun & frolic, but none dared open their eyes to this large table cloth that loomed. They were under its translucent magnitude, green, blue and black eyes all blinded by its soporific brilliance. Saved only by the deep sea under their feet they stumbled in cryptic circles holding bum cheeks and what not to preserve their mental calculations. The eerie orchard air expected a yield from these poor stumbling fools, who you might say were no more important than flatulent fruits that have gone off sailing into idyllic horizons.

Those fruits labored intentionally towards becoming light and frothy. A heady mix of sweet odors and mulch, to be frowned upon from lofty pulpits. Long tunneling visions, the prevailing darkness filling up tooth cavities and hollows of the body. Sweat clinging to musty walls and air unmoved for time unknown. Voices speak too loudly in this echo well. Wide wisdom bells clanging in the distance, some people know what time it is. Your vision never clogs up or dries, like they say, festoons and ribbons in your mouth little girl. Why do you beat me with that stick?

Speaking in bird voices. Is it a last resort for the lost voice, rejected and thrown into its dream bed, left to float on endlessly, looking and hoping for material transactions that will bring it back to life. Each nectar filled kernel despises the tool used for grinding out treaties of justice spells.

Fools

Tough take on total waste of wine filled wisdom seats caught under the brimming sea made mistakes of fulfillment. Counting the ages since frogs descended from the heavens, who needs to help the crying symptom of total mishap? A swiftly conical projection emanating from his tiny opening that wished to die. Explicit devouring of danger traps devoid of trance whips and cool aid drips. Can you wish away the travails of trees gone grey and sad perspective of collage cream.

A similitude dreamt for figuring out seamless cares. Sentences live and die, unscrupulously driven to change the warp and wharf of reality.

Whose will can that pretty leaf want to destroy? As if it were conceded to defeat’s kiss, in putrid deaf dots connecting unique claims of quiet disdain. A hostility refrain, one you never chance to forget solely on the sight of a deep catch. A vile being, regurgitated from repetitive tales meant to walk below conned division of willing thought osmosis, not meant to be divulged or driven to destructive thought. Definition woes of serial blasts occurring in the right pre-cortex.