Monday, December 31, 2012
A Long Pause under the Tattoo
pleasure is to ethics as Spode is to gastronomy
while across the river a recurring nightmare, film tunnels’re (wind) lifting wax paper when the water is abusive — all ends adaptively,
Duluth — you can’t handle Duluth. (RF)
The strategy is
like any landscape, wait for mistakes (1) and (2) pounce.
Woe is paralytic. I also detect a drop mention of broad-mindedness toward arched dynamics or versions of it, even when love centers on the numbed one with a body of rare happiness to be popsicle blue —
all of this implicit in the simplest rejoinder to the proudest to be stupid Dionysian.
Dionysian = garish brocade with puffy energy, cute, can’t think straight.
Watch this space.
Posted by Jack Kimball at 4:27 AM
Thursday, December 27, 2012
I’m a fan of the music that flows back in time from pharmacies.
English drapery completes the gutter.
I agree with you when you live long enough.
Operetta’s focus keeps an eye out, part of the knowledge industry that can consider approximations in crazy-fancy contexts nested within a keyboard. As for scrim’s logo, it’s so us washed to sea, paid to be friendly at the center of an oculus: the I stuck in the happy glissando 4-wheeler semis a-swirling.
Moving forward I have all of an hour to believe in sweetness itself made into infamous exposure (claws).
Lights up, no-name.
Homeless — we take ourselves inside inside where we reserve dissonance to dog light & volumes of bark animating the hedgerows of three-dimensional archiving.
Posted by Jack Kimball at 7:58 AM
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Inky musculature evokes nighttime and a quantum hummingbird. Tape both of my hands together. And grease-pencil trompe l'oeil on my forehead. Please.
Innocence is guilt. Yeah, blandness is a problem. No luck is too popular. Understanding what’s perfect we fear exclusion slathered with near-imperatives for rationales while the night refounds paradox as a creaked-out immensity, too mediocre to reformulate.
Everything dark is brute-accented imparting how our inflated logic dialogs with others, working three dimensions into a formless clot of mist.
I hope you’re happy.
I used to believe all the grossular and pine boxes that hold the night would open up to the horizon of a former life, a life stocked with the coloration of air like Shakespearean quarters foot-lighted with bouquet. Superangels strummed harps to sound the alert, lithe, w/ spooky edge. There used to be a flare for what noses should do, a full deck of going for the stretch and preen in a premonition, the one about other dimensions that (plan the predestined) blind patch — de-biased out of sample — the good of an experience / current status average win-loss.
The unequal in luck floated ashore.
Posted by Jack Kimball at 7:41 AM
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
There’s a cool oral tradition that’s like trail mix, so rhetorically honey-sealed and narratively palatable anyone with a few years of advanced English can have in.
It’s kinda clear that jumps in tone are staged to signify irony and distance about food prep and galley stainless.
The gestalt is to look urbanely offhand and sound normal. Do hang on.
The scribes are the first to note who’s hankering after whom. Gorgons are wrapped up like bargain hunters in boas, constantly slurping bouillabaisse smacked with vipers. It must be an omen or something. Or to put this another way, Labels don’t work outside among the diamondbacks. If you don’t believe me ask them.
In the change up scene everything is repurposed into conceptual deflation. Psychiatric disorders are now as commonly diagnosed as parallel discourse strategy.
Posted by Jack Kimball at 8:38 AM
Monday, December 10, 2012
A Cabin in the Launch
Witless v. gutless. It’s not to be.
Politics and the dignity of appearances don’t mix. (The financial pacs industry is just noticing.) Nothing personal, this is the sustained concussion version for charity... I also give in involuntarily for what’s not available, a cabin in the launch for recondite sentiments, for the boink of whinnying for pleasure. Or I cry when it becomes fashionable. I credit everything from the engine without a message.
I live in Hung Oaks.
I’m writing about it, not just doing something. I taper the next new visually inevitable thing and select for gameness. A deep-seated specialist would work with genres and play something interdisciplinary but I see beyond impertinence and scars. Um, ok, yes. I’ve misspelled the signs. I got a procedure to make it better — sham wildflowers, a few with a weird bounce and a fuchsia spurge past the goalpost. I’m on an errand stream to earn a structualist’s degree on time, a serener surface.
Posted by Jack Kimball at 6:48 AM
Monday, December 03, 2012
It’s a sorry concentrate: Until one went broke one was indebted.
Now an international scale opposes the light in my body. It’s scary loud at first, and yet there are comic possibilities as dreams seem to centralize.
I came to my senses breaking separate to put up a lava tint. So what if I say prompted the assembly made of torn Gillette letters and small decimals?
It’s hard to tack a center onto perception whetted by ideation! The mutts of childhood regenerate, there’s a nose and a tail, don’t fix them. Try to look better.
In the din nihilism shuts the door 24/7 on indisputable birdsong. It’s a good thing. That door leads to the rescue of children and all it contains, all I could have told you.
Posted by Jack Kimball at 6:00 AM