Shattered seashells so fluid and flowing groaning and growing hardly shards but scattered cards slaves washed away by waves and graves so empty they teem so silent they’re screaming and shouting their outing to nowhere to go where and show where their flow ends to bend and twist and mold the gist of gold to gain in pain to shine glowingly and knowingly with wisdom of all time and trial and tribulation the tv station of static staring straight through the melty-brained child stars and felt-handed compact cars caught catching crowns in crowds of clouds that fade softly into the mist you quietly wade in.
Shattered seashells shaping hearts that beat at their own slow pace tick slowly off the clock’s face fall softly in the palm of your hand folding grains of sand to make music and light in the stomach of night to digest lest they rest eternally in the eyes of the sky god and his flowing fields made of salty silk and orange milk that is safe enough to drink and sink down to the shine and brine at the base of the stand of the globe and the silver hem of the robe that no one can wear lest they tear away from the world.
Shattered seashells and scattered bells are the battered hells of which Simon tells each time he speaks in his commanding tone you must retaliate or be sucked into his dark romantic dance and games of chance to waltz in the fiery flags of white-tailed stags repeating forever their final fatal endeavor to mix and match and spark a revolutionary love a wingless dove senselessly beaten slashed crushed and mashed to be trashed happily ever after.
Shattered seashells finally free sadly drifting aimlessly so empty and whole yet not quite in-between for you and I to find together with our hands melting and our fingers still crossed after all these eternities spent soaking in the seashells.
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