Random burblings from Peregrin
Created | Updated Jan 28, 2002
Walking over the softly pupating mountains I come across a stream of
riveting acid winding sequentially across the blue horizon, slowly
smoothing the modern textbooks scrambling over the stones of contention.
My attention is evaluated by a new bronze reel wandering distractedly
through a cross of labels dedicated to their own misery. That is
increasingly long, though with incredible potential we find another way of mashing radioactive curtains. It all spirals into a depressive arc, static sparkling prettily through the colours and marbled pillars.
Winding away, the scene dissolves into a mass of trombones wailing sadly over the body of the new end. The age of filing tables reeks into a cordial jar trembling at any providing plug, screaming wildly at a protective palm, and shivering into the night, fading softly into the hazy chequebook.
Sharpening with impact, radiating letters fly crazily into the sight of all, hitting me with memoriable strangeness. The net result evolves into a dolphin running wildly at nothing except the other. Writing inside the pear my head scratches eagerly at the notes about rough early crocuses wandering happily through the current airfield. But reality contradicts itself and the pain runs through my cable like shining scissors floating through the wall with little or no elderflower.
Nothing seems to affect the time of day, mainly because brightness is not a factor of moderate life. Another faint song winds into being while seeming to turn the disc together into knots with lace. It quickly finishes to a new middle, slowly rushing towards the area module, refusing to ever contemplate the objective misery settling mildly over everything with innocence.
There is nothing unusual about anything, but me - my irrelevance seems to contradict and sweep away all reality, leaving nothing including jokes and faces. We happily open the masks and combine it all without a doubt, rarely thinking of the beautiful mosquitoes entering the rear socks. There is no escape but everything continues in a blur of accoustic guitars and memories.
Nothing seems to forget the other way of pretending seriously. It seems that everyone cares but flying under another bench we ignore the real sitting minority. Sadness prevails, and another pretence dawns.
Never again will African iced peacocks laugh with the feeble rollers,
swishing sleepily through the blood and mustard. For I now hear nothing but hearsay, signalling about the nothingness of deflating mushrooms.
Tentacles hideously weave memories into daytime through minor keystones.
A hard pretence is forced inside a cupboard sack, flexing electrically
through everything in particular. Barnacles would ever support
cardboard retention, through everything bizarre and curved. Nothing
will now stop the plastercene darts lying smoothly over the fired rocks.
Robotic heather slices merrily, building up a picture of destructive
wisdom, confidently falling down. Sorrowful strumming seems to shred
every trace of returning sanity, while the music - the scrumpled music - never dreams of blonde razors, redness flying over all as we fade.
Wildly varying, masks and fronts shatter in front of the misery and
pain. I sadly wonder at the other methods and how we survive. The
answer is never out there but we will always know.
Another dawn rotates, to a new and painted laughter. Everything of the old is now regrettable - the bizarre quotation happily sweeps the
metamorphosis out of the path, leaving a full and empty swaying
partition. I wake to the smell of cockroaches basking in the lined
darkness. Although I never thought of the fact before, it seems to
revoke all consiousness from its own diary. I take a deep slice of the breeze, mixed with blue stilton and hydrocortisone cream. A percentage of the redness combines thoughtfully, artfully, bringing new jump to the manual. Keys and letters dance upon the ceiling, jumping high into the galaxy with emphasis.
Eclectic numbers proudfully stripe and gaze. This seems beautiful and
attaches us with springiness. As I turn the leg of retention, a gazelle murmurs peacefully into the arc displaying distance. It all seems one with itself. Splitting into pages, new living light shades sigh and wander in the orange. A chapel seems laughably sane, while we strike and pick at the day. Time eats on while the monitor reverently squeezes.
Slowly the earplug shames the passing. Moving between the property, I
wish down a soft line. But however the time slides happily, and we
don't seem to leap, so artic mites should as might die. As the blight
passes the shadows shut on. There is no clarinet for memories, and so
I squabble on in delight at the passing tripod. It finds to a close all too quickly, amusingly ending the hitting with sadness. So wallets fade on. Fish nets and driving manuals gently cover the open and close wonderfully. The roll ends.
As the night draws to a start, cards flutter down together. Small
pictures of chimneys do not appear from everywhere. It is like another string - lit up by coins and with a feeling of mahogany. Wisps of plastic lightly squash around the sponge towers. Happily torpedo thinks away from cards on the wall, morphing unilaterally to the dark spike on a vortex. The crossing bar nastily pastes me to a false double.
