I have
debts those flowery cries while left abandoned but living; such secure blues
such uncertain jazz at blue terror nights; to arrange in you or to love
something acute while a man
can’t
identify his insanity; a freezer laughing at sudden a break to care more than
priests and nuns; this inner deacon this row so astute while carrying this
false image; such hurtful words
such
deep realities while those feelings are natural; a person sensing strength a
magazine highlights us while deeper into colors by confusion; so aflame by such
allure so aroused so
carefree;
by carried language or too many concerns where loving you seems so important;
if but fever or forever or such painstaking honesty; but glitter and rain to
awash his mind so ample so
secure
so devastated; where goodness is pain and pain is madness while a palm calmed
his guts; this sanity page this vibrant dementia where a wand those hands such
redeeming elegance.
It was
impish betrayal.
It steered
by redemption.
It swept him.
We trust or we
shun or we partially participate. We have
children. We laugh at play. We never forgive.
I was
at epistemology where I thought about extremes or rather, our galaxies inside;
to place each person on trial, to confront our realities, as but to prove total
absurdity. I felt sad…for it
seems
so irregular insomuch as the things we presume; but enough to pain or more to
frequencies while mystery is provided to distract us; by harder jaunts this
trekking through times if but to
extract
one clear correlation; into diamond oceans into emerald seas, or into others
but slanted; the endless shores those fragrant curses or to exist as nothing
quite good for anyone; this difficult reference while behavior juts into our
brains as to understand something fundamental in us.
—such furious eyes
to imagine our ways where tomorrow is misunderstood; to see us or to desire us
while cultural blockage prevents us. I don’t act like them. I don’t lust like
them. Wherefore, our personalities must dance—in a design that mostly speaks to
the surface. But not an unusual game, but a paining game, where two have sex
and get to examination later—to venture through or to lite a joint where father
sips cognac; or a sober life a level five life where nothing is taking place;
refueling comes by deficits or sin seems so romantic where character is teased,
or tested, or it remains untragic—
