Many Are Dying to Escape

Open our night, to tremble such feelings, morphing through dreams—as screamed his mind, to find such sorrow, this created life—where mother staggers, bent through liquors, as driving this inkless bridge; there’s something there, as father left, while more that courage to fly: It could be justice, or pure neglect, or more this vicious woman. I know more for streets, our morbid behaviors, as cursed to tread this ghetto adventure: Oh for sirens; and gore for stories; this anger a trope for poverty. I know us dying, mixing with off-beats, this hope to adjust our baseline; if only that feeling, this wintry delusion, to hold by chase superior persons: This mangled impression, our neighbor’s keys, this board of mirrors raging at life; there’s something there, while something is missing, this us lurching obscenities; if but that feeling, this mirage called “normal,”—our off-beat realities; to crumble at loses, fueled as muddy, accustomed to mistreatment; this villain of souls, our mother’s dejection, as sore to souls while dripping mucus: Oh for deaths, while buried in dungeons, where life takes course to continue; as, nevertheless, this fury to perish, our beating screams, at souls this war his brains. It couldn’t be life, as cut to shreds, where our mirrors are laughing—as crucial this crisis, our swans accustomed—to madness this lake of colors—where behaviors are treasures, while persons dangle by fences painted justice; this webbish harp; this inner lump; while to insist, death begs its captive. I’m reaching memories, while remaining silent, a bit torn through beige gusts; to live as vanished, to know this plight, while to pardon father: This miracle semen, this bipolar madness, this gene as mingled with its twin. It shouldn’t be life, where treachery prevails, as only our cultures; to find us desert-less, as found without histories, or more defined by slavery: This cryptic insistence; our tragic locations; our needs through obscenities for receptions; this fury as driven, our souls as exchanged, while horses are running weighed in rages—that cage of justice, where hearts are caved, while pictures flash of our tragic comedies; this life of souls, painted as caricatures, lost to various fancies; this reptilian palm, forsaken to chaos, as to strip a soul of breath-flame. It comes this way, this inner existential, while trekking this outer tension; to traipse a star, by chance a thought, where said plight becomes a shadow; as forever to chase, while at love this person, hoping to escape our ghettoes; where voices dwell, as sirens sing, flipping through flashbacks.