***
The driveway opens up comfortably reclining in the
sovereignly soft embrace of the protective greenery. Stems fragile, and yet
persevering. The breeze as mild as the armchair’s unobtrusive, yet undoubted,
presence. The fireplace unmovable. The lamp like a symbol of persistence amidst
the cornucopia of alternating cycles of noise & silence. Where nature,
architecture, thoughts, and everything else meet in the language of alternating
cycles of collision & accord, the lamp smiles radiance into the space
soaked in the smell of the mellow breeze. Its shade opens up like petals
emanating indigo smoke across the wilderness dotted with sunsparks. Galaxies
encrusted with a corona of snowflakes. Each of them like raindrops satiating the
exhausted bark’s thirst with an appeasing layer, simultaneously keeping the
desertlike dreamscape in abeyance and allaying a drought. Amber like mafotherphunkie smileshield
whispering to the attentive mollicules of air tales of wandering, search, scattering,
solitude, stamina, and reintegration. Laceworks.
memories bring vibes from the days bygone when
politics of ideologically poetic philosophy meant music and an understanding
that in order to dissense one needs to consense / when sunny climes meant long, lazy, rainy
mornings saturated in music / above all, when sunshine meant sweet fruit and
freedom from everything, but not for anything.
Nostalgia is not that what colors such memories. Sweet
music is immune to idealization, lionization, romanticization, glorification,
and/or any variant of bullshiteering of the kind. So is it to projections,
introjections, buzz smudge, somnambulist logic, and/or any robozomboid
combination. Like phunk.
it’s just that last nite i thought i had a dream of u
/ in it, we spoke the language i can understand and speak / and so can u.
Q : likemafotherphunkiephunk.
A : likemafotherphunkiephunk.
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