A collective piece, Friday 12th November

If they think I am an octopus then they should provide me with shoes and socks and shoe horns for my favorite pairs ……..
of socks that always seem to be lost to me, especially in the winter, only to be found again in the years hottest days………
which then becomes a cavern of silicone, which melting onto a bed of cloves, experiences the tempest that lives in erotic dreams……..
which are not very likely after a few pints of cranberry juice……..
But to a certain degree all was as expected
Leaving the last things, I saw in a gutter full of stars, sick lightening caught in the fur of an ocelot…….mixed a teaspoon of creamy nourishing spinach………which was what the house was made of.
In the winter time the house reduced in size considerably during heavy rain…………that splatters on the plastic that leaps from ear to ear,
the great game goes on……….as it was on Friday, and Saturday…..
As the Red bus goes toot, and a smack leaves a stain.
So the blood of stars is in the sand. The desert is in the eyes of the woman who holds the lightening between her teeth……and a gong beneath her wig and scalpel……..as one of the most useful tools that has ever been invented, not including the tin opener……..that opens your dreams. Hollow out your heart and let your feet feel…….the tip of
the iceberg lying deep in the blue cold ocean.
Melting slowly into the river, I watched through the window.


~ by londonsurrealistgroup on November 15, 2010.

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