Into
this gut or into existence or into roaring oceans.
But
a beat drumming or strumming guitars or thrumming imagination.
So
wild those journeys such cadence in streams or bars upon this interior city; at
something so closely, or feeling strange at such suffering—over violins; the
beauty of a psych the courage of an artist or the fury of a poet.
So
utterly fretful a fist full of promises while needing mother: this relaxed genius
this knowhow performer or that awful musk perfume; this teacher this dreary
reality or this casual sphinx; so needed in glory at such rank in spirit as to
pass a ring hexed just for survival; those addict years those bloated
insistencies or cursed by inheritance: our ancestors, so steeped in voodoo, while
paperbags were used to determine friendship.
It was a young feeling it
curdled in dementias while an orphan had a daughter; or abandoned at two flung
into adulthood while a five-year old played therapist; so deprived of normality
for it had no resilience while mother was raising a robot; those rugs so low
this metaphor for humans while society reinforced docility.
We
lived in a grave the interior was ignorance the pain was quite ingratiated.
Such
fever struck this room so neat where an office was on alert; to see one coming
mixed with experience while each one is a threat; (it is quite real, this
logical presumption, where we are being assessed based upon what we might do;
it stems from others, those dear others, so neat so complete upon sudden rage;
to die here or to assume there where despite normality—something is living in
those chambers).
So,
why provoke it this treacherous inquiry if not but to identify it?
Out
of bags of silence comes a fatal truth—we must find those hiding!
We spoke by language.
Many angles were measured. While at times—I asked as if looking at self. But more
to interpretation or more to hunches where it is impossible to discard freely, subjectivity;
an ordering canopy a clear dysfunction while some will never unbuckle bias comfort-zones;
(but does it matter, in a cynical universe, where proof is provided for
unthreading?); it is never received, no matter one’s rank, while a person might
make one feel goodness; this is sheer design, similar to correctional officers,
as taught to distrust everything; those public prisons, while no one is
listening, unless certain voids are being occupied; such a dreary release in a
cagey atmosphere while normal truly means face-value; this harsh undercurrent,
if looked at closely, while kneading mentally the adoration one has for love
ones.
