"And yet a syncretism of sensitivity keeps words from crystallising into perfect solids. Unexpected adjectives collect about the focal meaning of the noun. A new environment allows the word to enter not only into one's thoughts, but also one's daydreams. Language dreams."

Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space

inharmonious catapult of resounding particles and rounded nostrils into the neighbours’ backyard swooping for dioramas so special this ideal state of indecisions indecisions indecisions grounds something of a horizontal plane so we align and practise our posture. irritation is flicking eyeballs for a better perspective. 

sundial flemington

fly guy tomorrow

fresh sock & wednesday picturesque

- no evidence - 

Inherited daydream and a dispatched budget pressed gently against a bulging vein of improvement       we have here, friends, a sloppy non-idea lets toast to too many saturated dwellings      pardon me paused on tv that button well shirted will probably still be here tomorrow, but it’s monday all day   good heavens it didn’t have anywhere to go

The thought was bed-ridden

the others

jostled for some sorry and associative

apology

plagiarising opinions and essays of behaviour with no bibliography

why are we all drunk? and more importantly … “how are you?”

terrorising my internals

the externals don’t honour their untold narratives and go on conversing like blunt collages

i’ll-brush-my-teeth-tomorrow

hands of flamingo powder beard cult and oppressor

images beside themselves and diving board

or piece of capital

 

Infinite bag pack sack patterns and empty underling sidetracked by dosh ding dong bell recess and rest head on 0.2 inch lens singlet launch my free lungs work professionally for ankle hems personally and document

image through an open door 

the weekly maverick, notoriously divine devout to his problems where others are problems and icons are posters ready to be whitewashed by tomorrow’s sterile; history becomes texture under opaque skin. we break the ice with cold feet and leave lunchboxes in the fridge to form leftover landscapes, it doesn’t need to be dealt with, it needs breath and stomach acids – nothing will happen unless you chew. ted has tokens and shows us them in his palm, as if his eyes were there. and our eyes are there. singing songs of veneration and holy auras unbound profound dominated by a thwarting chronology that we time travel across perplexed and disjointed joining dots and discarding doubts into other people’s powerpoint presentations. there’s a little bit of an age gap between us and god.