I
know this space those ecliptic surprises those horrified screaming skies; such
life through blockage such a feeling to vomit so forced to sustain joy; but
days are complex, those states of nothingness, or a cigar a magazine or
someone that has become me; just to believe when needing sentimentality our
souls clamped by private interests; if but to erase me if but to escape me if
but to deal with terror by ease; such unethical ways to learn about tragedy
while to wonder about our inheritance; but over there, our disinterested
galaxy, while needing trenchant attention.
I arrive at feelings
while upbraided by conflict where I must love something by its nature; such
distemper such whitewashing or plain discomfort;
by animal inclination to
reside as queen where instruments are in disharmony.
It
means so little, to align with actuality, where we prefer our self-amusement.
I
met a daughter, many years ago, while we read each other: I saw brains; I listened
to attitude; plus, I was uncertain; our banished flowers, or that cutting need,
as if strangers might open up; it’s different with young people, or different
with old wounds, while one desires this all-encompassing Christmas carol.
The songs have died, but
penchants are curiosity, where many are fighting to adorn this chasm. Such alabaster
time where sugar is pain as one writes as if winning; but a sad sentence while
eyes water over something pleasing no one; but Love is education where
something is untaught while I fear that emotions are becoming numb; this
furious feeling where a daughter is beauty but parts of self are either buried
or running; this dreary carnival or such melancholic laughter while tethered
losing essential cymbals.
Seeping
into sentimentalities or hardened by actualities where we try to escape our
countenance: deconstructing softly at trenchant core while unbuilt plus
clamping at empty spaces; a bit saddened those cries, given one dance to
protect, while rubbing an infuriated ego; (to sense strength where the
sensor is strong while no one is submitting; it becomes terror, absolutely
horrific, where ethics seem childish; to make that effect to unsubtly drill
that peg while, in reality, neither quite cares).
But
a saffron vagueness but desert blue tumbleweed or so unheard, for so long, that
it’s difficult to summons a feeling.
Anger
is so easy, for such as winter’s song, but tragedy becomes public.
It’s
not the calamity, as it is others watching, plus, a medley of terrifying
bedlam; this asylum of positions, while so influenced, indeed, so close;
rebuilt in seven years, or firmer in that old person, where forty-two by seven
spells too many facts to deconstruct.
