On a quiet summer’s day, I will remember the strange mumbo jumbo I’ve muttered into paisley tea-cups and hat-boxes, into pearly, desperado rooms of anonymous paint and wallpaper, places strewn with highlander words and floral confetti of the most incarnate sort; nonsensical nursery rhymes quacking left and right in the intervals of the fulcrum night, where the silver face of the yellow moon hangs blithely on a string from my doppelgänger ceiling. Nights of peering into the cold-cream mirror stand on the shelf, and flipping through au-tomaton books of ergy; those consonants of watery ilk now rising on the duck tongue like bits of candy, and the daffodil perfume haze in the air making my alien eyes seek the truth of the matter on a Sunday in June——that instantaneous bling in my eyelids which was purple heather now leav-ing a smidgen of awkward destiny within me. Some foolish hours spent dreaming of the iridescence of a gigantic token pearl stolen from the surface of a Manchurian paper crown made me cry for the old dynasties, the chit words missing from my square pillow. Willoughby willow, and rosy wooze? Where were the beautiful, twisted women of the old days, reeling from a sunset distortion of the actual colors—-wild onyx, and adamantine ruby, the rhythms of the slow beat outside the drape of my curtain revealed the petering traffic run amok on the planet of no-return; disturbed eyes run hither and slither on the margins of blarney pages of creased, dowdy manuscripts, seeking truth and weathered light. Like the blue funk thumb-prints of paper-cuts, and grief, melting into past and present tokens of my kind; a shitzu runs out of the noire night into the next street, and I am left with absolutely nothing but my gym shoes stinging with acronyms of love. Theatrical heaven could be only taken in doses, with a hint of sassafras candy stolen from out of the snuff box on my desk; that was grim reality, the orphaned cry of grey-haired children, starved for affection in the indefatigable sun, opaline wrists bedizened with Capernaum gems of a keen variety, like betting for horse-races on a Sunday afternoon was this thing called a sylvan iden-tity, full of salacious vim, and quelque chose passions, the stiff circle of flowers hanging above my head.