It
becomes holy disaster aborted to lime rusts at haven hells; to rekindle a
simmering flame or to restate an aphorism a bit reboxed and sold by interior
abandonment; as ignoring creativity or slums those rooms at graves with chalk
our screams outlining ghosts—or so rabid where it never mattered for ours
remains divided cultures; out knitted taverns our ventures in burgundy while
never an increment of equality—this foolish man this daft and crazy man as
lucid some moments raving in absolute anger: to wonder about minds to sense
something striking nerves this nimbus this noose at cures for seconds plus
another drink—if but those souls re-splayed in skies such skin condemnation and
pride; this interior batter-ram this log of sacrificial(s) where one needs
something hating his guts; as it never stops this agenda in men those vine
spikes those rose thorns at breakfast briers nibbling gently. I have some
difficulties sprayed in vinegar or lavished with too much applesauce—so quick
to dismiss an affront or so quicker to rethink an insult but at times it revs
in and something bubbles to the top of sanity; our bells ringing our minds
ringing our hearts dropping and summonsed to return; such fair creatures such
dynamic credentials so forward and so determined; but enough those waves as
they continue to ebb where reality is purple and reality is blue; this inner saxophone
those rebirths or unborn to damages and fending to break free; those eyes laugh
and they tell a story while humor is utilized to survive; our utensils, right,
our do for deaths and needing forgiveness, right; indeed, this pained man at
something incredible where most have no idea of the beauty in repentance; to go
into that castle to redeem that castle and to turn and yearn and churn—the blindness
of the writer in this cascading Jerusalem while so yogic/mystic it frightens
the author; those days running into this turquoise desert where suddenly things
are purely black and brown; those hazes or those planets while a man is so
aloof to his breath; this destruction with time this furious beast where on impact
one bonds with antagonisms! —to hate and die to love and die to hate us and
love us and rebuild something long-ago hung and dead; this caption upon graves
this Lucifer in Heaven or this Satan a person at something those years flown
and gone—this branch of goats as serving a purpose but denied despite grave
attempts—as nay this portrait as fevered this picture while daughters are
climbing this rising eclipse; so perfect in that second to arise as so lifted
where patience was dynamic and terribly miserable; to write with us or to be
blind in us at jaguars and cougars and cheetahs; this last portfolio or this
first portfolio while so struck by something fearing its ugliness; our vacuumed
veins our crimson gins while favored for rebelling in this land of leviathans—
I know something clearly
in this vest so steep while life churns for such happiness; those primroses
those prime-diamonds where certain words have become frustrations; our Chinese noodles
our saké and sour shrimps or deep fried pork chops, as delivered sinners while
never perfect but endowed with holy cadence; beyond our territory or beyond our
station while so ready and so there it felt goodness to pass into glory; such
daughters I vibe through as asunder screaming-to if but to restructure life in
demons’ layers; this oddity this escaping inwardly to realize the world as such
darkness; this flower in gilded petals this lacewing giggling or mother a tear
to gut for it hurts like reasonings; our steaks and too much salt, our
vegetables and too little sauce, or nights sitting in a given second to come to
terms with a mincing reflection.
