…so
tired with it, this constant barrage, those tender tentacles: to announce
behaviors, as claimed a victim, so surrendered as pure survivor: those miracles
explaining, this vest of remarks, while desperate for something crucial:
likewise crazy, or holding to statutes, invested in pure infatuation: such
rhythmic deaths, such poetry in clouds, while many have disposition: our curled
swans, our bloodshot mothers, at fields burning critical pictures: thereat,
this prayerful warrior, while losing concentration, so gone with shivers: those
bloodshot breasts, those smoldering eyes, where God was lent a repellant….
…if
but Lexus born, as churning delights, to perish so deep it’s difficult claiming
breaths: such pudding and pop, such diseased insinuation, such cursed
blessings: as refused by life, engaged at lights, where crucial those turns
burning retinas: this life, Swan, this tragic life, Swan, while thrown into
cauldrons, Swan: if but Rolex diamonds, or cave-havens, nibbling upon eagles:
this roasted feast, to embody flights, while thrown into Native lore: our lure
with samples, our mailbox mystery, our signatures written upon Spirit: to
resist this way, as fretting potential, our minds cleaving to ambiguity: such
popcorn, such devilish arms, such palm and gnat—to flee existence, turning in
circles, a bit ashamed of needing such indifference….
I
feel vague, looking for gnawing, or experiencing something intangible: this
deep exhaustion, this itchy scalp, this tragic legacy: those miles to lightning,
this thunder popping, at terrible feelings those elves: our bowels laughing,
our tundra blazing, this ghost intimidating: to hate a man, despite good sense,
while feeling glamorous: to hate knowledge, to abhor knowledge, to need for
slow friends: this space in terrors, this conglomerate episode, while it felt
good to hate: such existence, threshed by indecencies, while adoring a crooked
liaison: but life is good, this crucial paradox, while so infested flies are
humming nearby: such critical abandon, to despise philosophy, to hate something
at thoughts: this lust for fleeing, this lust for gathering, this lust for pure
lusts: at magnet scars, returning to ground zero, and despising those firemen:
as built for seduction, burning and churning, where Love adores something
filthy: such erased morals, such reversed ethics, at thoughts plotting for
massacres: those rehearsed lines, that intimate disaster, to pull closer asking
for seduction: but Naïve is sick, and Naïve is dumb, and Naïve is thwarted this
death valley, this cursed vineyard, those treacherous thoughts: as expecting
retreats, as expecting fervent love, while agony threshes both flesh and
brains.
I
flew abroad, laughing with Jesus, extracting chemicals: this ruthless bunch, as
teaching a lesson, born to hells for desecration: but less to myth, and more to
conscience, running though sugarcane: to exhaust a feeling, to rebirth a death,
while communication comes by staring: to realize death, to snatch a condom, to
do as one pleases: those angry participants, this chance to churn, while Love
is using us: this plural interior, this Sybil mentality, this hidden self a
face beaming: those large features, this hellish hound, while father is quite
oblivious: as cycling through dementia, or falling to carpets, or screaming
about something nonsensical: this thick massacre, this bubbly concupiscence,
this remorseful neck: at tender for stupid, at July and Independence, while
purchasing a three pack: this proper excuse, this city of wilderness, those
pills meaning so little: to pop right there, to wait an hour, but life expires
in days: such technology, such practical application, while Love spent hell to
snatch it off: this need to churn, this gravity and ice, this love purchased by
interior scars.
