....'Somewhere between cinnabar and rustic barn'.

Long pause, like fossil stilton.

'I can do cinnamon bruise (?)'

A ripple of vox on aluminium clink;
encased between oxyhaemoglobin
and hurried tikka. 
Strange tales of azure and spaz
drift over aisle borders,
put down to infant whimsy.

This remains my speciality, my limner's glory; I am the red fox fobbing the scarlet fuzz; the dragon's ember that fallows the knight. 

But let us not become carried away in spectral surreality.  The point at which 314 becomes 315 is simply a stride too far; as 'Mourning becomes Aegisthus'; it risks oculi disarray and that can only lead to collapse of the eye/brain continence.

Example: There were fisticuffs today on aisle two hundred and eighty nine. Cracked Carmine (Treeona) embroiled in dispute with Cardinal Hiccup (Jeff); this is only the beginning I tells ya; time, time, time is the lone discriminating factor.  (That and some confusion over sandwich ownership.)

Remove time and all boundaries dissolve, not to monotone, nor 'no tone', but tone that is neither and or. 

'The sun moved to readjust the shade' and not in an anthropocentric arc - it just felt like it.

'Time is context and context is life', flapped the tongue. 

Artists use 'paint' and 'pigment' interchangeably, of course, but that's just mind gook. The day I failed to clock in began in cerise confusion and descended into colonic downpour.  Admiral Mimitz-Cloon was right and Mimitz was no fool, no anal autocrat; he painted his mistress many times.  The spectrum must be ordered and defined or else any old fucking tinge will start getting ideas.

We're wiser now (in real terms);
spurn the tired mothers,
the legerdemain lovers:
old mythic tales of colour charted bliss;
the Pantonic Order fades;
Hark the Herald whitewashed kiss
corrupted
in the great Magnolia Crusades. 

I shouldn't be still here,
meshed in faux saffron dream;
the thistle on a Carthamus tinctorius; 
it's only national minimum wage:
three seeds a day and episodic saline drip;
this government is so fucking tweed. 
I really deserve so much more. 

I could've worked in curtains
or girded your lamp in a distemper of gloriole;
could've been a lippy gemstone on a puckered pimp;
a tattoo ejaculate of semi oriental significance in your primest rump;
I could've been more
than a tone
of a shade
of an ink
in a tin
on a shelf.