I
can’t remember subtle, at evenings worshiping, Subtle, by means alive this subtle atmosphere: our Pakistan Brides,
this curious creature, and this echoed profanity: moreover, a curse, gazing
into beauty, or laughing for far so immature: this needy creation, this
independent creation, where a man feels awkward: our brains to rescues, as
feeling secure, where Love is quite to wavering: this missed ship, this crying
igloo, or days to hating our guts: thereto, this missing balloon, this wailing
kettle, this glorious summer: at angry fingers, or tips brewing vodka, or
memories where Love was quite indecent: those road beetles, those deep
abrasions, this similarity to longevity: our selfish replies, our needs for
attention, as centered this Asian furniture: or laughing with Love, this
eternal stingray, this precious, soft material: as swollen eyes, and pints of
cognac, or nights wrestling for a decent climax: this future Washington, our
skin-tight deaths, or German fevers—to arrive at time, or to resist for
success, while tugged for yanked crying into ceilings. I centipede venom, I dance like July, this
man taken by belly chanters: that whelmed century, this revolving pistol, those
pages of energy: to hit, destroy, and earthquake a soul: this up for lights,
this down for darkness, to realize souls are watching: this provocative lizard,
those hind legs, while nibbling poison grass: if but to live, or furious at
flights, to have, possess, and keep through existence: our crazy ideals, this
winning youth, or minds meeting at tables: to churn worlds, our cubs grinning,
our souls at thoughts: that beautiful this, that glorious that, or trials to
come: if but to flourish, this flippant morality, or guts striving for
indecencies. Such salty lakes, those
elegant lies, this soul chugged by strangers: to arouse a feeling, to die those
rivers, as dressing his ocean: that potent loudness, this thrust for deaths, or
passing upon a lively birth: at tales laughing, at privacies crying, while
treacherous a notch repenting: this world to songs, this ant to battles, this
cactus as metaphorical: where Love is grimaced, or tending to perish, where two
walk separately: this crucial junction, this daily ritual, this treasure
passing upon train-wrecks.
Tuesday, August 21, 2018
Crappy Chats
Empty Space
I’ve been in this space before—it seems natural, the affection of energies. Such interwoven moods, a series of underpinnings. A differen...
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It rarely falls as it should. In forcing syntax, one dies. So precedented; one dream those days, and nerves were fretting. Affected by l...
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To speak of spirit is speculation, albeit, a symbol, filled with meaning and designation. In my hunger for the symbol, in my thirst for ...