RLASKEY: words

Incense, incensed; drip four letters laterally.  Sip sauce of sunk ships, blinked past lost tips.  A mind is a terrible thing to waste, waiting watchfully for future ending Saturdays.  The weekend calls the start of still, time flipped on each flop, slip.  Tin cans half full of half-empty lids, rusted out bottoms resurrect the clean game, provenance.  Some days the words meaning minds; others, they form pink clouds of unsung sorrow.  Picture pitchers of piss-glazed pints, peering into placid points of star-bound dreams.  We sit shaky some days, tuning; in the next day and out the five former.

Words.  Words lost, spit into dark clouds to be spit back out again, serving sunlight to the thoughts and minds between them.  Plain site we deplaned at the sight of what we left behind.  Second sense, found fathers and confounding the fuel entities; sat shiftily on hills of grains and whey.  Long notes and fast decay splits summer, fall, winter, records; a springboard for elemental elision.  Worked out the numbers in my head until they made more sense; now 5, 5, 5, 4.  Countdown to channel switching; lost the signal but found something fresh and new and simple and quiet and warm.

Hand writes without the sight of the sound; visual tangles wrangled out of sonic scenes, textured over slips of time.