…we
must know words, as skillet humans, or pots too heated: our guts screaming, our
contours calm, and brains at smoke-shine: this maniac fool, a bit smooth with
grease, this punished being: or
famous and dying, this gravel in tongues, this beach in Indiana: our kleptic
hearts, this miracle strawberry, or mothers turning tricks: that leaf tear,
those sherm clouds, this heinous vagina: or pure impatience, this grand jury,
this mathematic lunatic: at cut grass, this grasshopper passion, too lethal for
mere charms: more to life, this bag of penance, this glass of penitence, or
rapid to death laughing at Death: thereunto, this whisper island, this deep
fracture, to believe where science has pitched a fit: those inrushes, those
dope-lanes, or this cul-de-sac agenda: this ghetto pedigree, those years in
classrooms, or this magnified liar: as civilized losers, or rebuilt sleepiness,
to fuel with witnessed pride: hither, and dying, or laughing and crying, to
sing this head to pavements: as lost souls, or daughters hating Love, to fret
while distorted: this manic supple, this nib rapture, or bang to guts bleeding
his memories…. I couldn’t lie, as
ostracized dearly, where everything is bad: this florid aria, this song at
trees, as afloat this twilight fantast:
here-within, those glowing fountains, this promise, skittish, or brains
to fumes: our scruples, Love, our guts when pain trickles, or days feeling
unaffected: this street he lived, this soul as admired, or those cuffs as
demanding: or laudable services, to refuse silence, or subtle to dead-men: our
graves, Love, our suicidal tides, Love, or mothers bent for destroyed: to hate
purity, to despise life, while feuding for another blast: those emphatic laws,
this deconstructed voice, or years to feeling heavy: this adult life, given to
young years, where an infant is cooking dinner: as dying and laughing, this
sparkle of drama, to expose innocence to pure trauma: indeed, for love, this
rich fatigue, at evils to caution against dying. It comes, bequeath, to pardon such lies,
while so distressed our eagles are crashing to concrete: those deceased miles,
this trial of fury, or affection feeling weary: those fitful vibrations, to
ravel and choke, where roots thrust outward: this vomit speaking, this liquor
at algebra, or days feeling with majesty: that madman, this mad wine, those mad
psychs: at religiosity, cutting dry air, to forward a curse: this mental knoll,
those mental agonies, or this mental regime: as nettled deeply, a bit to
levities, where priests baptize deep anguish: that raw blood, those raw bones,
this haven princess: as never accountable, and ever apologized to, where we
wonder about behavior. …we wean
insanity, this ignorant ass society, while good
becomes this mental luxury: our eyes laughing, our souls dancing, to shock
a museum: this brain of images, this black dynamite, those treacherous
reversals: this deep deficit, this absence of Reality, this internal conflict,
to feel misunderstood, or enriched as a monster, while our world is frowning:
this right sensation, this left majesty, or curls to guts where
wrong feels good: moreover, this
curse; this bag of intestines, this heart of shrapnel: as utter death, but
tragic to marrow, to destroy about tragedies: this billion dollar mistake, this
travesty sociopath, while father is feeling destiny: those high grades, those
low brows, or heartbeats thumping Jesus: and, furthermore, this fancy novel,
this documentary, or passionate loses becoming feel-breath: as realism splattered, or life as Epicureanism, where
souls taste-test existence: (that
teary soul, as furnished with deaths, and steering frontiers: this land of
magic, this fairy-dust maniac, or liquor too dead to become life: those cocaine
dreams, that red-rose fire, or angular excitements: to destroy others, while
holding dusts, where whispers drown our voices: at sublime agonies, or facial
expressions, to perfect that perfect identity: to forget our lives, as never
this soul, at straights pushing our ghettoes: thither-with, this pistol ink,
this falling short, or Love longing for completion: that quiet rage, or
pulsating ankles, where father claimed, Pimp..!).
