I
let everyone who entered my life enter through me. Demanded nonsense love and
bodies that would ring (Eye Level 41).
What
future is disaster?
I
know much this life but weary about treatment those elements we ignore; as
casual creatures undergoing courage such fire, indeterminants & pain; but a
souvenir for breakfast but a close stranger our bodies showered our features
uncleansed; but what is disaster—peering into jungles—while left one last
kilowatt?
That
countenance, it has become me, while so afar threading new sunbeams; to need
that disaster to want something painful where we become traumatizing memories.
I was a stowaway child
prized as an outcast while neither white nor black—but let’s read my birth certificate.
So specific an inquiry as
left to succeed if fortunate or left to die rules by nature; this symphony of
circumstances, as never one for complaints, but damn, so much befell but a
little boy.
I grab lotic levity in
livid cells abased as a creature arising swiftly; our tender seconds to have
but one wish if but to adore as loved while forced to desist; those ludic eyes
so filled with melancholia while chancing and dancing, notwithstanding.
Those metal spiked words
this ferric channel so favored as a dear rug; this person searched for, this
cherished sunlight, where one becomes a doormat specialist; our expert
speculation our marvelous epistemologies or our rectangular skepticism; these
needed rescuers, those internal knells, so silent so absolutely colorful; but
clashing winds torn as befuddled where a man sat still from deviation.
Those resplendent
miseries or inrushing mathematics at something—it must be Wisdom; this fleece
of projections those lines through Europe or those bones in Africa; our innate
tantrums or these mental links where one suggests disconnection; so aloof to me
so far from self while hollering & screaming about identity; this fair box
but imagine this—we need more for our children; as a man lives so might he die
where we catch a glimpse of our insanity.
What
future is disaster?
