Thursday, October 17, 2013

Colour(s)







The flowers are made of red.

We play pliers on the right side of the Southern window. The black hands line the linens of white withdrawal, an absolute result of being tinted so. This charming kitchen of yellow and pink and chromatic chords crosses deep down and gives us plenty. Sometimes mental, sometimes just a notion, the purchase of lavender sparks imaginations and visible light. What bothers you more, the travels for the translation? No one word can mean one thing or anything. Somewhere down the line, the white goes grey.

Did you wait for it for eating love?

In fondness for sinister, the placard reads a simple purple, blamed torrid. There are no recessions of practical fact, no wonderness of distracted envy of the green grave. After the sunset, blush in its guilt, the green grows brown, then dark, then silent. Please declare all that went to waste, the hump of the day. Black only pretends to care, like an actor, unaware of the cause. How much hold the breath contains? How much diminish?

The blue in the wretch of my guts.