Singing Nerves

Mixing wangs with practice, circum-ambulation, and yoga, my nerves are like little juicy fishes. Little fishes who exclaim "madness is as madness does." Frank little fishes, contorting themselves and unfurling with regularity. They toil and list from side to side. Screaming one minute "Olay!," whispering the next "olay," they are uncharacteristically feminine. Vibrating strongly in the pocket of their own doom, and protecting themselves, like a big furnace with a turban on it's head. How can we express this in English?

A little boy wanders in a deserted kingdom. Its alabaster brightness shines evenly. His kindred are folks of the upper region. His lonely legs see things as though they were hollow tubes. The brass envelope has a stretch mark on it, like it was polished up to a certain point and then forgot what it was doing. It is courteous to me , and yet has an endearing quality--like plums careening through space. Where is the fortress that hums it's own tune? It is in the majestic regency of space. A thumbtack extends into the brightness of the sky, beaconing the outer reaches of existence to inculcate themselves into the heart of living things, the heart of absolute madness, the prank they call "earth" and "fire" and so on.

This is the solution the atomic question. Life and the aftermath of death drone on. There is no ending here, just more and more solutions insinuating themselves forward.