Here's to the talking mouth, obviously,
and the nondescript noise of epic elocution. The blathering drivel
eclipses all but the most intrinsic of motor acuity. You'll meander
through the motions, taking in the ambiance of the permanent
collection, swaying to the hamster sounds, mush mouth, incoherent
ramblings of an alien voice, somehow understandable while at the same
time incoherent. What it sprouts from parched lips glistens with
truth, but the logic is irrefutable due to ambiguity. It's tough to
argue from the tip of your tongue. An echoing answer mingles around
the edges in a more feminine tone, sweet talk mixed with innuendo but
it passes over the senses like a red balloon over a field of poppies,
imagery unbound, titillating perception, diluting propositions that
teeter on the edge of reason. Still the mouth drones on repeating
soliloquys and Technicolor how-to lists that confound, yet satisfy.
Along the fringe, framing the pretense, she answers glibly with a
recipe of reciprocation and then mixes it verbally, continues on task
while you wander open to impression, maudlin to modernism, immune to
cubism, numb to steam punk. Lips and vocal chords hidden like wires
in conduits gather sentiments in monotone drifts high in camouflaged
rafters, until the coagulant spiels burst with the vehemence of storm
clouds over the plains. You'll get it then, obviously.
