one-derment

Dada Monologue returns! (see previous posts where I introduce this style)

Green tiles swept through my stranded island dweller not to be upstaged by this harmful wonderkind. Hence why is orange now the favoured mastiff of a generation? Trains glide by and yet my word stays unmarred but unpublished and if this flower gives the lint of weeping to my hat then all is taken in jest. Here is where licking enters into a contract with the season just exiting to the streets down below should you see him, say I once knew nothing. But should you speakeasy to the wind then bring the rains of heaven and Post to the green light beyond the dock to where the bonds are. Green laid out from post to pillar and stern to stem but all I saw was forged faces to clown around the vented space.
Green they were but I saw only melancholy and the strain of fire that burned this particular brightness.