Blue has many shades.

Smart words! Smart words!
Escaping my windows!

How to relish the fog? Or the smog where I’m concerned??

In pursuit of a silent movie I’m walking a mile. With sneakers on for comfort. But it’s biting into my vocabulary. And I do not attempt to lie. Sense is not construed in untruthful sentences.

Took the painters advice and bought some cushion for lying down.
Next to a few mythological dreamers. We had a lot in common. All our words lacked gender and tense.
Lacked even the viable strands of times’ errors. Words on words. Not a line spoken. All through the tentacles of the dictators of the silver screen projections.
Not the directors. They are content being ghosts. Driving home language instead of limousines.

I was not interested in languages. Nor were my mythological dreamers. It was the grail of ultimate letters in tow, we were after. Letters in tow.

The weight it yielded was light. Only the esoteric group of welcomed bystanders were heavy, seeped in misplaced profits!

Misplaced profits! The guffaws of the banks ware hardly cynical. They too succeeded in comprehending the dreamers’ dream. The mythology of words.

Found words are far too boring. I was going on and on about the languages I could not speak. Illiteracy in the guise of ignorance.
The lost words are the real interest.
Free of morality, they operate beneath our/my radar. Copulating hazardously. Practicing incest. Dying in orange pools of slow blues numbers. Orange!

I discovered a new author this morning. He wrote pretty poems too. I felt his pain. Died his heroes’ death. Cries his widows tears. Understood all his poetic allusions, and the realm between the lines. His words were mine. I knew them all too well. He just said them with more style and panache.

He never bothered to invent.

Nor did she.

The only time I collapsed attempting the revival of the unknown linguists, was also the last time I lost my mind in straight sets to an under confident player of the arts. Why did I never call for a challenge?

Being doomed to the paths of the less knighted, dwelling in the soft glows of the green lights, the long sentences I omit are forgotten by the deep sea publishers.
Growth to the wandering babbler. Hail the unreasonable household rambler.
The pioneers of the fantasy. Of discoverable words.

Orange, live, in silence, no longer rotting in water bottles, under the plastic covers we laid it to sleep on. Seeping fast into the shoes I wore in search of the silent movie.
Comfort, the vocabulary is now preserved within the envelops of the gallery walls.

Cyan waters – cerulean mud – robin egg blue imagination – teal bells ringing – viridian stones gathering paintings to quench the unattainable thirst of colour contrasts.

Wish me the courage to imagine new letters being towed!