We
need for it, ever to want for it, a thirst to spas-out. He’s
droopy
eyed, to speak with Satan, surprised for mystery.
Indeed—for
preachers, where love grew, splayed and slain.
We
grow beige, as gravid as tears, his beating heart.
There’s
a nightmare, to flood the ghettos, to rob Chicanos.
I
ache in a fresh blue, to sport a necktie, banging a
corporate
life.
“He sold for out, a picket fence, a thousand miles
for
right”;—but what to give, for opposing light, necking
with
death? I live it green, with burgundy eyes, flaming
pure
white. Is this his path, trekking Imperial, to stop at
Gompers?
I love it too much, to sing it purple, for a child
to
see. Oh for God, we died—blazing on sherm sticks; and
more
was ex, a few tries, lost at a hospital. I blame the
cook,
and crooked eyes, to claim a lover; and still to push,
roaming
the graves, and reading tombs. There’s
something
here, and only psychs know, to paint me
abstract.
I bit a bullet, and hellah draped, forced to grind;
and
this is life, to cook a last meal, to love ‘till death.
