Untold
miseries so cold and warm so compassionate and dead—this flurry of ribs this
perfect artery at minds and ghosts and love adored but unheard; so close to
kissing so close a whisper so dizzy and drinking and meditated; for love is
daughter this title arranged this gut all the way to Egypt; at Africa tripping
abased for pigmentation at truancies after school dipping—those low riders these gusts floating at a hundred and ten miles; bloated with liquor and looking like
life such glow and thighs cut his memories. I could to adore I could to love
but agony is so complete—this demon fly and stung like bees at clusters like
ghettoes and binoculars; this surveillance party those Feds gawking but Love
looks too incredible. I’m fire with that I’m alert in that amazed the door
broke hinges—those wolves this blood to catch menticide—those blankets floating
midair at so many rollers it hurts; stabbing down Crenshaw a bright mission at
Love like beauty died there; to put on for darling, or to remorse for daughter,
while lost and indebted—these metal glands this gut-core at insanity and
feeling normal; as mother bought a quarter and set up shop while puffing a
little city; such classics such concertos so rewound so destined to die; this
pastime those pebbles a big brick chopped into a million dubs; so death with it
upon a bike with it for he lit a clove—insomuch to live insomuch to adore but Love
was panic and a man lives that down.
I
disappear into a bigger place while tunneling an exit; to exist in you to live
in you but never to have met you—this blue death this realist death so
existential and pragmatic; to hit a million to lose a zillion about this design—too
many people too much opinion while Love aches and needs something dying; those
miseries this trenchant rain at something too remarkable to resist; it was
hell, Daughter, but a man rolled on and God was good—this preacher in me, this
battle in me, so lonely and alive so cut through and abandoned to shivers. I reappear
looking for love but stranded from Love as dropping higher and living lowly;
those miserable passions so accursed and roaming while a woman is a thousand
dimensions.
Hard
glances or sick remorse at something too intellectual to explain; this voice in
screams this battle on stars to drop into those palms; as an outlaw or a
student or a priest; at Love but weary for Love has demons and more need me;
this daughter arisen those rivers at fires so deep so boiling so spirit—to die
with passion to arise with venom while many ask too many enigmas.
It
isn’t promised no matter our legacies while a moon dropped took earth and
rebirthed; such agony such misery too plain to explore and too cold too heat;
such melting ice such childhood dynamite while a future child might arrange an
arrival. Too pure for filthy and too filthy for pure while this cycle becomes so
evident; or to exist as naïve so correct it feels pride where everyone else is
missing that mark; so underdeveloped or such a disappointment at something fretted
and fettered; this life mission this terrible battle while we must forgive more
often than we approve of; this treacherous beauty so dug into me so threshed
and naked—pure blood and bleeding oils abandoned to adore destruction; to touch
and smoke a clove so aware that Love agonized to commit chaos; so low with fire
so high with water while mother bought a half brick.
I close
with more I travel with phantoms and I love like it’s getting hard; relooking
at this poetess as never found in this rank so abused by unusual fantasies; to
adore like a distant grave or to exist like he never recovered at something
undug and digging with suspicion.
