So
long at this. This flower fire frenzy. Aborted but wobbling. Ecliptic rage.
Gages in helium. This intense, internal and agitated admiration. Reading and
slowing pace. Dying and slowing pace. Abandoned to furious purgatories.
I
know this name, embedded in guts, to thump and relapse. Those integral
machines. This flippant deep concern. So blank, so crooked, as but a straight
abandoned line. This psych vibe. Our dearest converse. While tropes chance or
die those horizons. This yogic thump, or mystic concentration, so afire and
becoming more platonic. As thrust sewers, or radiant garbage, so pure this
enticing sword. Our blood purple brims. Our embarrassing psychologies. So close
to something that utters too much sense. This movie on pages. This electricity
as meant to calm. Or this wonderful person despite those odd capillaries. Our
water ducts. Our overt dis-completion. While it was said we live!
It
was hard to feel you. It was hell to let go. Where reality became a tormentor.
This soft galaxy. This infusing music-gray. So dead to something so much
beauty. This edge we travel. This island we chalk. While professors splayed my
life in ink. This roaring novel. This novella in treacheries. While mother is
so close to destroying our hells. I must fly. I must dote over cyan. If but to
relegate this ugly emotion. So curt to self. So banished to skies. While a man
holds doubt believing in faith. Those tedious recurrent splinters. This foolish
wall. So Berlin and inevitable.
Coals
are simmering. A woman prepares. So sudden to walk over said coals. A man reaps
evilness. This man become Psalms. As living to witness utter indemnity. Our
reluctant films, splayed and splattered, while insistence is sifted from souls.
Those round deaths—so included in sleeping—while Love awoke shot a volt and
fell into dungeons.
Scythe
vengeance. Or deeper remorse. Where Love struggled and died and became a living
miracle. A rare pathbreaker. Our minds to Aphra. So inclined to vex with men.
Our living courage. Our trenchant indelible(s). To exist as paper. Where one
draws our image. While we watch in desperation. But Love is something. While
impugning intentions—While laughing at trespasses. Our guts involved, our
hearts as glass-fire, where a poet is bent over smelting(s).
This
fridge is glorious. This swan is a heroine. While father sits in deliberation.
So inclined to ignore, while hell is rising, where a person is desire to
escape. This torn repression. This indelicate fury. Or this upwelling
suppression. Such uncooked and raw turkey. Those innumerable shadows. While a
man is swatting a flute of whispers. Such deep thought. Such indecent hope.
Where we realize this depth in humans. To live a fever. To maintain a fever.
While said fever is just waiting. This harbinger of rules. This executive of
rights. While one works to plant an impression. This new car feeling. This lot
of miracles. Or this asphalt of detriments. If but to kiss lights. If but to
enlighten a feeling. Where Appropriate spoke flame.
Dirty
and bloody knees. This underdone Ethic. This ought as determination. Those
roseries screaming. This delight as foreign. So distressed, so damning astute,
or too apt but unready. Such sophic unknowingness. This patio of decisions.
While characters are deep fried. Our cultic telepathy. To write and miss and
you think it. While so afar we’ve become song-fires.
