Wednesday, September 18, 2019

Color & Anxieties—so Insignificant!


…back from malaise, or impoverished moods, while seething this cycle; reminded of pure beauty, those unseeing instruments, where surface was intoxicating; old before his time, elders and whisky, or satellite dreams; this scope of hays, this haze in tenderness, or to touch oblivious to consequence; so involved in thisness, so presumed by whatness, where thatness was abated by presence; our minds confounded, our bodies corresponding, before morals determined attraction….

It appears normal. It sings opera. But art isn’t vocal enough. / Such ethic poverty. So delicate to Shunga. And often revisited.

I spoke to it, this harping unsteadiness, listening to tragedy. Those burgundy feelings, those esoteric cries, so distant and feeling concerned. Removed from essence, re-pictured with time, at crystalized redemption. To flit and glide, seems so foreign, where deep sociality is scarred. But life is forward, where thoughts travel backwards, while many are warring those clocks. Memories upon feathers. Screams upon scarves. Deeper enclaves upon pillows. / Our weeping joy. Those furnaced flickers. At one particular ember. / To chance existence. Or perish existence. Galloping into justice. / So feral a dream. Such heavy logs. While clarity is foggy. / Our needs for familiarity. Our desires for rough terrain. While cleaving to something seeming normal.

This surge of walls, this dirge of calls, while urged to crawl. / Fevered for clearance. Wrestling by toothpicks. Our asylums fortified.

…those bandit scales, those ruthless and unfeeling laws, or those draconian standards…. such cliffs and abasements, so thrown into pits, laughing while feeding morsels. our Jerimiah index, our Isaiah flame, such ministers desirous by sin; our sheepskin sackcloth, our robotic responses, plus, our rebellious foresights; such by compass, giggling with friends, over something terrifying our children; to ponder naively, at our daughter’s silence, where adherence doesn’t suggest agreements; probing and clashing, for raw meats, such substance in freezers; those unslaked fevers, such overwhelming rightness, while color is so precedented; for never our souls, but ever their souls, while forced to accept treasons; at friends studying chaos, at fury starched by confusion, or famous searching for clarity; our graves calling, our bodies aching, our selves thrust through; this tune so ordinary, our volume so executed, where some walk their crucifixions; to have such access, to lose such power, where words are shot to trash bins; our lamenting luxuries, our conversing laxatives, so cured, so undetectable, and so cursed.  

It becomes love, as long as, withering and fretful. Our windows at dawn. Our saddest mesmerizations. So anti-color, but ever so colorful. / As taking routes. Looking at something peculiar. Adored so much as acceptive. / This sickness. Holding something unpredictable. Such holiness while things are perfect. / If but a problem, it must be similar, thus, we commiserate. /Walking our deserts. Feigning our oasis. So accustomed to claiming Athena. / this easy battle, tattered and unsullied, but cleaner than color; so confused this way, where one is bad, but wretchedness touched so long ago; a furious vessel, a furious prevaricator, and so much riding on that voice; as prepared for Legos, running our dearest offices, as multipurposed tornadoes; our spider senses, screaming at something privileged, while it has become the family ‘norm’.

All are Braving the Future

    If I may tell it, sore disquieted, greeting memories. Such soul-iniquity, grinding through havens, begging those last three dimensions. ...