It's
complicated matter reduced to trivial reality while remaining a mental-complex;
it’s not the tragedy of ancient Sophocles and it’s not as rich as Saint
Augustine but nonetheless it’s more radiant than all the above; because it’s
pertinent to the author and it dies with the author and it carries holiness and
sin and Jesus and Satan and all that has become demonized. It’s a brain eraser
it’s wine lubricant and it’s sober while chasing and living and accused of a
callous disposition. This feeling miracle this agent watching closely our
emotions under surveillance; to come so far into myths or to fiddle with Aesop
where a deeper creature is churning into an author’s energies: to arrive in
ghettoes or to die in mysticism at a particular unborn color; to have mother,
to survive father or to sense something delicate beneath stronger exterior—our
sensitive spirits our wild cane fires or sensing something incredible in the
most resistant portrait. (It was nice to become something it was heaven to
distraught popular belief and it was God to uproot a struggling thorn: his
nerves heavy his soul caged where a linchpin was removed: his arms reaching
those cries shrieking or this room filled with reasons to escape; our organic
characters our natural personalities while itching and scratching and biting at
Jesus; our trenchant thoughts removed from actuality while too consumed by
something inescapable).
so many
pages scanned or too many feelings filtered while most adore a good time—if but
to release self if but to flower freely if but to love and adore while reaching
to keep life; so consumed by essence where a soul gathers berries and a mother
is struggling through decisions; to agree that one should wait—indeed, if
home-love should blossom—while just maybe a slither of mercy. I disappeared but
soon to return while something is trying to seep outwards; this cathedral of
missing inks or this rooftop keeping silence where some are having a deceptive
good time; to imagine brains as they hang in orbit where one is only comfy in
fire’s dungeon. So hated by reflection so sick with recruiting agents and
entering with knowledge of destroying its manifest. This curse in men ever at
responsibility but hell is what some would ask we endure.
I
resist irritation long into this sun-night afire in an intimate location; our
dreams, Mama—our torn and mutilated and molested screams, Mama; if but gothic
winds or postmodern deconstruction while nothing is normal anymore; to possess
malice to feed upon venom while forced to restructure in spite of wrongdoings;
this gravel at necks this gnawing and chewing insanities where resurrection is
always an option; those ghetto parchments this ghetto interior to wash and give
life while demons appear in mirrors; this table of contents but never an answer
while we never settle for answers; this curse in men this legacy sin as but a
kernel in this oceanic sky. Those phantom splinters as criticizing existence
but dogma and something too full.
