To call it swimming is weird

The day I overdosed on anchovies was a cloudy day
with winds from the east that purple and lime green
blustered while a lame purpose from the east swayed
twin palm's golden birthing into that dictionary scene. 

A little cow funk evaporated through the clear divide,
enough to color my now room from a cool white vibe
to something more like blues ascension in crazy time.
(When salty little fish grow wings you'd better sigh.)

Skipping, skipping, New Morning and only had groove
enough to smell the chocolate and crave salty legumes.
A taste is sweet enough when the skillet starts to move,
little black specks in your roux: a solemn hint of tombs.

Bass lines make no issues with glass that so easily slides,
down in a crypt I hearded crimes from crispy fins inside.