I
love it moving, to ponder mother, chunking bottles. I
see
her there, with swollen bags, an image of our culture.
A
smile can frighten, a heart to spin, a ten day binge. We
love
it for passion, to weave through traffic, dripping a
cross.
I pass for love, ever for love, to needle a groan. It’s
less
for arms, and more for scars, further gone through
winter. There’s garden ink, to mural walls,
and crawl
this
life. I’m heavy for steering, plucking for woes, five
wounds
in. Reach and be seen, to climb a fence, echoes
in
a background. I know for night, to shatter windows,
screaming
at phantoms. Was it us, to struggle life,
swimming
narcotics? For ever so lost, naked in a backroom,
tipsy
off liquor. I knew her like spirit, driving for dungeons.
I
love it moving, to ponder mother, chunking violence. I
see
her, bruised and scarred, and quick for hells. Is it culture,
to
visit dungeons, reciting screams? We live it raw, a bag of
pains,
stripping for soul and brain. Let it be gentle, and
give
her wings, a driven drive. I ask, spinning for winds,
adrift
for cries.
