A
bit weary. This strong soul. Or mother screaming at weakness. I tear up. Those
heinous mountains. This gut pearl—this gut war. To sense a miracle. Too hung by
faith. Our bowels laughing! Winds are barking. Cats are vigil. This porridge is
minimal. I sit anticipation—longing a disruptive zone—at poles and phones and
dungeons and women. Those virtuous blossoms. This short address. Fretting a
nomad agenda.
Reading
for hours. Pausing for reflection. Tugging lungs at windows. This color fear;
this abased behavior; so, dedicated by defenses. Our daughters, Man! Our
mothers so hard at it. While something collapsed. This strange world. This
unique voice. This nice, needing truths, this mythical behavior. I looked at
crazy. Too educated! But needing a life-jacket. This dog bike—this mystic over
there—or this yogi so close a nightmare. (Too much despair. Too much ignorance.
As captive accordions). Our longer mesmerization(s)…our Glaucon inquiries…where
Plato is speaking exclusively. To agree forever—this land by hopes—this face
distressing prisoners. So deceived! Abiding forever. Or laughing while so
uncomfortable.
Death
is so feared. Life is so dear. While Pinocchio drank his first beer. To picture
bites. This angst of membrance. A nine-year-old guzzling vodka.
We
attack poets. We dismiss their screams. We ban them from our republic. As men
dying. As women explosive. While deep reality, permits for hatreds. Too crucial
and critic; our children as guardians; our mouths as prophetic. This expressive
soul, so naked and un-abused by life, our redeemed contradiction. Such
practical wisdom—as practical knowledge—while Jimmy just committed a heinous
mirror.
I
ate a domino. I fought a platypus. I took courage gently.
Brains
are snowing. Branches grew an inch. This sap is rich in existence. Metropolis
flame. Guggenheim discoloration. Metropolitan encouragement. At frozen glaze—or
torn mystics—where Love engulfed a pair of dice. This radiant phobia. So close
to something ruined. While Love reflected, bit an apple, and passed it. This
fiery bathhouse. This inward valley. While pupils are dilated. A little wine. A
fair disposition. A studied ashtray.
Love
is Tibetan. A serious daughter. While granny might be Christian—a serious
mother. I walk by. I cry a tinge. But it felt good to grip confetti. A bit
weird. A bit too involved. But lights are churning grays. This tenfold tiger.
Those years at chaos. To laugh, feel goodness, and rebuke those better days.
Our lemurs watching. Calculating behaviors. So wrong, so beyond language. But
granny is giggling—and grandpa is smiling—and we continue this disruption. —
for guts are inflamed, intestines are gunning, while divine madness is
considered spatial. — a radical inflation, a tormented sky, while color is said
of non-offense. — this debated reality, fending for our favors, while a swan
just took a stronghold. Our embarrassing parents. Our flails and failures.
While Little Jenny just bought a doll. This porcelain perfection. This thing we
aren’t. While peering at tawny cries. But pain is sweet. So, view in them.
Where something is poking frontal lobes. Those broken cameras—for life is
rosaries—and something is glowing. Those treasured volcanoes. This icy sulfur.
As time came to hydroplane.
