Slender Gluttons

Glass doors are made of sand, a riper shade of pale brown through which you look at the world. Sandy beaches, trains of thought, ruins of time flow inside or the outside of every side of every exit. Somewhere around something would change its shape that is quite natural the shape of a mango a pear or something shapeless, not to panic.

May be, not, may be, not, may be, not, may be, not, may be, not, may be, not, may be, not, may be, not, may be, not, may be, not, may be, not, may be, not, may be, not, may be, not, may be, not, may be, not, may be, not, may be, not, may be, not, may be, not, may be, may be not.

Potatoes yam onions are all their own in their own minds. They show no grace, no disgrace and wear no braces. Apparently.

An easel stands at the corner of the room - waiting to play the choicest of music in colours for you to see. Visual music is much more evolved than what you hear.

A match box matches not with anything else. It is so full of matches - and a label with the picture of a ship.

There are no slender gluttons other than the very few we know. It is not a lie, if only you would not believe.

What colour your shadow, what shape the proof of your existence, what said you, in what sense and what meaning was your birth and the ones that you gave birth to, them words and verbal paintings, G S? I’ll walk with them Tender Buttons once again.

This, tribute.

Pointless tribute, to pointless madness.