…so
sick there, such heavy frustration, inverted, so calm, hating those flippant
reasons: so excused, such a dead person, so poor with morals, so rageful with hatred:
this sick ass composure, those burgundy rugs, this frigid white monkey: so many
years at it, this perfect person, while whores are turning tricks: this
desperate, envious, even jealous person: so many laughs, this demented soul,
while esteemed as politicians: our fueled allies, our nose rings, our pierced
cavities: to die this feeling, so grogged and offensive, such a threat to
humiliation…. …we sense sickness, we
wave a flag, so near, so smelly, so gutted: this field of hoppers, this grassy
green vagueness, while tender a second, so grabbed by Forbidden: those black moons, those beige lines, so curious, so
dead, such a rival of human standards: such recited veins, such putrid odors,
while lives are goodly ruined: thesis to necks, dissertation to bowels, and
Love adores feeling trashy: this interior enemy, this mental friend, those
cameras, those wigs, this hellish person: so gutted, so floored, while crawling
to Satan: perfect strangers, so perfect a tendency, so bias towards something
raunchy: our pointing minds, our wretched hedonism, our graphic skies: as
addicts wrestling, as addicted to feeling dungy, while it felt so fantastic to
release Christianity: posed in ingredients, so many palms, so cursed and
feeling suicidal: but running to ghettoes, or roaming sick ass alleys, so
afflicted, such a diamond, while guzzling vodka….
I’m
losing lights, I’m feeling theological, but life is so infected: this pool of
ignorance, this interior yearning, those bass-line travesties: our thuggish
arches, our thuggish women, or so rich, so inflamed, while needing desecration:
such human behavior, so fretted so young, while I’ve seen those seamy sides:
some pass disease, others pass narcotics, while others run from self passing
judgments: our plums with gin, our strawberries with clay, our futures with
barbwires: this bone-gut, this sky-cartilage, at pavement face to imploding:
this horrible feeling, this glorious God, so inverted, such a prude, but
addicted to something disgraceful: this man with problems, this woman
anti-sins, where behavior is bleeping normal: those years with therapists,
those seconds with conscience, so flipped, so jaded, where it takes a great
infraction to climax: our ribs, God, our Greeks, God, our forbidden molehills:
this Solomon curse, this winter’s attraction, so reasonable, so affected, so
changed and feeling dislocated: as young those cries, while old these pebbles,
so flexed, so fluxed, while it felt exciting to churn gravy.
It
feels unbearable, but lies are courted, one so infatuated, damn near desperate,
and saying just about anything: those curly sighs, that coquettish smile, this
feeling like dying to agree: so pulled inwardly, so thrilled mentally, while
ignoring this wretch’s reputation: our souls so packed, our minds so running,
at gates pleading entrance: a palm of pills, a glass of terror, while so close
to making a breakthrough: back to ground zero, this land of temptation, those
grains sewn into something exotic: our deadly bodies, our invaded cavities, so
wretched, biting jaws, so alive to die in a stranger’s dungeon: so ashamed with
it, this self-talking machine, while a trillion dollar woman just turned her
ninth trick: our inclinations, those attractive, but grungy excitabilities: so
raw with hate, so rare a soldier, while Love just graduated a warrior: our long
banter, our dozen games, while a glare stimulated something deceased.
