Friday, August 2, 2013

be—be—be the infinite


As I view fragments of an amorphous, that is, without regard to form, in the order in which they occurred to me. 
Sound is unjust wielding a phenomenon of nature’s calm storm.
Morning’s light moves elsewhere.
The invisible action of movement, it doesn’t act violent at this very moment,
the sounds of prosody,
ruffles
sputters
chatters, because the foliage is being frank yet coy with wind.
The atmosphere dulled in vibrancy, floating in an anxious field of cumulonimbus clouds.
The weather permits itself as sober yet existing within a false tempo;
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what a fiasco of charmlessness.
Bountiful in tonal shadows, stringent in ominous relief: foreplay. 
The showers begin rioting furiously ripping and churning the air violently.
The noise, supersaturate when drumming the landscape with only droplets of rain.

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