To
hell with it!
I
could adore you or something like you to ravish both guts and interior; at
beautiful bones or hanging hips at thighs and ghosts and lambs; but an essence
man, at something terrible, while it felt good enough to perish; our sharpness
our carpet pets or our pet-peeves; those exercised cables those exercised lips
or this ability found in workers; those blue veins those pomegranate hells into
life as such was flying.
Wild whispers or
activated wines while wealth is measured by etiquette; such gesture activity
those polished scars at essence bleeding inferiority; soft Sufi piano at random
chaos so tropic so exotic; but I cherish you I’d die profession for you in such
a mess to explode brains in you; this man falling, this picture fading, our
failures filling our wellic minds; to bleed in us to cavalier a death in us if
but to appear one passion in us.
It
was easy to fall in you it was hell to restrain deliberateness in such a curse
to relive you.
I mumble my flaws, my
foibles, my brain activity. I see a ghost so gorgeous a ghost this pantomime
hysterical ghost; I nurture interior I’ve felt other walls I’m a man around a
dozen blocks; to imagine so pure to die those infractions while womb speaks its
silent moisture; this talkative abandonment this body at fire while ecstasy
drove a man too delirious; such faint illumination where two would die while a
son was laughing and devoid of measures.
I
am remiss in tragedies this breakage our curse while something remains unbreakable.
It was death to meet you
for one must possess you while you pride upon non-capture; such rage ensues
while a man is polite where he wrestles with demons; this need for security
this feeling in subjugation while we ignore anything ugly.
But
Love is a sage a diamond or a remarkable atmosphere.
We think so deeply we are
designed to think as most often outthinking ourselves. I try to rethink I attempt
to unthink while in reality there is too much to think about. This gnawing
gale, those peaceful lies, while Love might be a sickly creature; but does it
matter, is anything viable, while I postulate loving something I do not know;
this foolish brain, this cagey angst, while withdrawing I cut into madness; if
but such wombic passion, if but a body screaming, if but cultic annihilation.
It
is pain to know you it is life to ponder you (indeed) it is prose and poetry to
envision you.
