8 Short Conversations With Pictures

Skateboard Chocolate Stirring.

Electric strings collapse the bore. Twelve pink things are scattered. Six pink things are scattered. Two pink things are scattered. Wheeling forth is not being a wheel. Yellow unites the stripe of chocolate to its arc opposing frame, stir, stir, string of wood colors string of wood. Foot looks to head as heart looks to art, table cannot breed us much. If we are turned into play, so much a painting in the picture, strange and momentary languages erupt as a talisman of friction. Shaving es having, having knot, whatever burdens might fuel a living totem.




Fountain of the Hunters.

Moving within the circle of life, something reloads the mountain. If cranes dance outside the labyrinth, a small depression becomes universal for meeting. Froth can tower between two times, while terrible truths lay still and silent as stone, the hunters circle the plaza. If flowering mania yet cripples the snow, how would stone come to sleep more orderly in the wild? Sensing provisions or a haunt, red is absent yet presents an interior face outside the window's rose. Water comes out of the Earth in many places and in many forms. Hill yet stepping, yet steppes hill the whole hell yelling its wellness. Such simple dimples trigger a city.




Puppy-Pupa Ice-Floe.

Pupa drifts toward liknon, cur, cumulous, ice sentences surround. How weird the invincible non-solidity, freezing, thawing, gnawing, dreaming. When the arc makes a handle cold, obscene formlessness must inform our cliffs of straw. Its vocabulary is surely towel, a ratio of black sheep to while, how hungry the head is for shapes so sharp to soothe its dull and solar ice. Warm fur creases the mind of ice. Ice whitens the dogs of mindbergs. Of puppies warms the waves of pupas as blue misses blue.




Sacks.

Festoon to festoon. I do not know yet. Campesino searching cobble. Earth shape to man shape, come in mane shape. If a river would invade the same city twice, identical britches look much larger through a telephone. Donkeys are like people with bigger souls the cars toward a blue. A dawn of keys, to sayeth Obliqua. As each flower is the beach in its wind, so parking is easier the farther away from the patterns of a usual plaza. It is only because of the largest leaf in the world that tellurions sample the throne of white boxes.




Blue Mahgreb.

White aitch em the last two unions. All of Morocco is turned blue. All of the last donkey is turned blue. When is, the is of stones, is turned blue. Taking up its lapse, some parts have fallen. If the dump is growing cactus, make for some edge or boundary. A pinnacle of some place is emerging beneath your gaze. If we cannot depend on the psychology of fabulous numbers, we can always return to the line. Young ladies are obviously the officers in this empty universe of signs. Only things are every. If in waking the green waking is a stone, a small shy toy turns brown. We are glad the train has come this way.




Self-Inscribe.

A tang of coinage wrestles the pen. Head seen from top. Castle seen through spinning. Pearls choke the gears of yearlings. His art ruins itself, the copper line generative, a self-inscribing architechure bramble the terraced trades a banded dawn. Its clumps are abandoned only where the gravure is deepest, skin is a poor material. Skin art to Earth, what Earth art to skeining, principles lie this way and that, kin or kithmost to layers of lairs learning surface. What is a mark to a marker?




Ralph’s Cannes

Mixing cans in rows suddenly Citroens a Cannes. Motley star, the palm tree holds up a head less thought, some vehicles are sorely portioned by things compared by nought. If stallion went into blackness' total one, drunken light burning into oneness. These hillsides yet exist in one form or another's dream. It presents the empty holder, as in Bomarzo, Cybele balances an urn upon her head. Ralph is Cybele, although drummer loosens to the wave of breaking stone, a scream of pure becoming going back to Gondwana. Villa yokes the dormitory. Upon the shores of France, a mechanical engineer drumming through all or most in its heavy meta.




Sancho Duckling.

Twins would journey in Xibalba, and Sancho Panza must hold two small chicks for the supper of Don Quixote. Can we resist the smiling terror of chicks which is unknown in love? If the face is a chick whose rooster hides a face of longing, what small hole in boot can doorway an ancient toe? A goddess is always a creature whose horns are arms which end in hands holding babies. Great joys lift out of these. The ease of which it is established. If we take the time to silver the wrist, we'll take the time to man the mines. Some towns smell like the processing of Tequila.