…those
roses sing, they become soprano, to languish and feel so guilty: such short
expansion, such old style graffiti, such unedited feelings: to micro
intestines, to laugh when Love sighs, or to believe in us through devastation:
pictured as this, but science renews observations, but anger ensues about
something slippery: those concrete assumptions, this velvety body, as a heart
becomes warm…. I can’t remember it happening, but geladas giggled, and
compunction soared: those beautiful scientists, those marvelous Utilitarians,
or so for equality it aches to speak: our faith in x, if x than c, and if c
than bx: so circular, Love, looking and staring, while granny casted a casual
glance: where terms speak condition, if to do this ‘thing’, I must will that
everyone can do this ‘thing’: this pain in legalities, this legality in
humanness, and, thus, humanness becomes pain: so curt with daisies, so symbolic
with, Love, to need something a colored soul can’t sin: our passion in
blueness, our rage in redness, our skies burgundy orange: virtual reality,
glass becoming human, a porcelain bystander: to realize sorrow, to know this
love, but a Caucasian woman might do for sin: where both are angry, while both
need power, but chances and life and deaths: baggy denims, railing cologne, as
something emotion sensitive: as so into possibility, while losing possibility,
or remembering this Indian woman: as never a voice, filled with documents,
where another is fraught by behaviorisms: this tall documentary, this family
determination, while too hurt to fully exclaim something patient: abstract
wilderness, platypus searching(s), at signature melancholia: divorced from
seasons, haunted by memories, while a new atmosphere has struck brains: a
casual fool, a man needing absorption, where most need excitement: this ever
river, this pace feeling dynamite, while cursed for holding back!
I
argue Invisibility, angry with design, feuding this floor mirror: debating
Rhianna, or at times with Sofia, this Black Kingdom, this Jamaican Glamour: our
guts fevered, our hearts at rampages, or this fretted polygraph: our daughters
with Gucci, a bag of ten grand, a hilarious phantom sipping blackness: so
revved for composure, so thrown into graphics, where contracts depict our
behaviors: seated upon mints, eating white licorice, while blue eyes seem a bit
aesthetic: this mulatto man, this quadroon daughter, while identity is mixed
and giggling: our curse in histories, our plight as fought through eternity,
while so cool, or so kosher, listening to this New Age Linguistic: such poetic
wisdom, looking like superficial, but deep body an exquisite fulcrum: those
cute deaths, this endless kiss, those musical devises—as long to this fire,
this explosive agony, where a few mistakes speak tantamount: so into us, so
thrown in us, while needing to believe in us: to give meaning, to explode
contacts, while rearranged debating our origins: this duvet minx, this tired
ghetto reality, while both have become tremendous academicians: so accustomed
to division, so enlove with rules, while broken for cured and gunning: at black
magic, mingling white magic, and sacrificed for another those bandits: as x was
y, and y was bx, and bx lead to c—where c divorced its inherent x.
…if
not us than them, if not them than mystery, and mystery could never be us: this
fever in blights, this membrance in swanship, or those times it felt good to be
hated: those screenplays, those playwrights, or this stage appearing in its
colors: our filmmaker hats, our lives as one cool affair, while imagination has
run amuck….
…such
Scarlett dreams, such Scarlett memories, so low so high—and popping for
maniacs: this life but unloved, those surreal eyes, while one is stressed and
disposed looking into shadows!
