Out of dreams.

Imagination is a wonderful thing it allows anyone to be a king without it I guess everyone would be alright because life would just be nothing more nothing less.

The best show is the one you write yourself well at least you get to work out how it all ends.

Cola shooting backwards in the awareness of time ticking clocks singing about all the chocolate times rushing past lamplight the entire neighbourhood dripping in pins wild movement looks right.

In the corner stands a factory looking like glass or ice tracks sleeping no more gas finally someone is here to change the day. Solvents out. Problems flooding falling free cracking heavy like eggs fizzling in a pan, smashing through waters, the factories are without doubt the beast in the garden sings a lullaby to the moon and when the moon goes to bed it is the landing for the stars hissing out on modern chimes.

Thank you for your photograph, I see it and it helps me laugh, thank you for my sleeps. Dreams I remember them id feel free.

Thank you for the grass I took and smoked around, which helped me look at flowers, birds and everything, it even helped my voice to sing.

That is why I like to play at pretending we can all turn into birds, that then fly away and turn into stars, twinkling in the back of time.

When flashing lights never cease, falling berries don’t exist, except in Bermuda where the triangles lie about shapes and space and all the dice roll’s threes instead of two’s a gamblers choice, cutting through the park.