While present this love, bars suffocate pash—this phantom
his brains; this petit feeling, as small as shame, screaming this cursed name;
so soft ingestion, sipping the sweetest nectar, inhaling those missiles of
life; this candid picture, filled with sheer disdain, while longing for the
strangest touch: clutched in lust; our mercies grieving; to see her in skin
tight denims; or more a brooch, or more a blouse, where breasts tickle
excitement; as so subtle our trail, this vixen of a woman, as wild as cocaine;
this frantic walk, to jog insanely, as cringing at daylight. We love it broken,
as familiar our apple pie, while a woman whole burns in agony; for fixing is
nature, to muse upon sorrows, a woman nurturing a psychopath; this Manson
nature, this cultic spear—and so afraid of loneliness; so its person to person,
while healing is a myth, as the ageless mourn wisdom; that distinguished woman,
too bold for fear, placating a stranger’s ego. Something vital was lost—whereas, something
sacred was gained, while she wonders of his agony; as to finally see it, a coup
of strangers, if only for the sheer excitement; to claim it as human, those
grave misfortunes, as it should be his death; while purged in therapy, mourning
he couldn’t see, a set of minds bent on psychologies; to know tense
infractions, a foot or two his life, as distant as nuns: his earth matrimony;
her silence fierce; while they spar in memories; where it couldn’t be real—for
one so driven, as broken as the rage of albums; whereto, she watches, while
reading in silence, too distant to care; but filled the same, this verse of
motions, tugging at inner rawness; this furious tale, as caged in an
instance—where she’s too smart to fail; so gradual the fall, lusting for
something secret, as situated in breakthroughs; to know that second, a koan to
a legend, to see her as a woman; this fatal trap, as wrapped in disappointment,
where ignorance shadows intelligence; this heart of fools, too torn to
succumb—to an album skipping on repeat.
