would
it be this meadow of bestial cries or love as tender deer?
so
arranged to anchor life this wind those doors this fire; as one chasing rebels
this self in its portrait while I walked out of mirrors; hourglass bodies or
petite diets while so groomed for gluttony; where one is amazing another is
startling wherefore we grackle that flame; a man to brooks or melting into
fabrics but yesterday was rage.
I cannot
see you—as far as this
essence,
for it missed its freelance; tall bark and castle or treehouse and ransom while
one was lonely;
such
frantic helium such rich guava while nectar was such pavement.
slow rhapsody into
torque while a man cannot control; our mega-obsessions so torn if she is free
so uninclined if she is humbled; more firewood or more water or always some
more; by kittle the kitten came by bacteria the murder went, while in nature we
call it differently; a mere scent or delicate tendencies while we behave for
strangers.
I misread
you this fair-minded event this acrobatic linguist this scientist despite its
contradiction.
I sit in something
spatial or this patience while it was normal to be angry; so much to me such
petals by syrup or so many praying mantis; to compose and never see or to love
and never be while something sharp and uneasy hits while resting; to wean
mother or to disregard father where habits become our countenance; such deficit
by tears such sweet purging or spirit-shrapnel; to steer our destinies or to
dine over detachment while suffering this side-effect; utter numbness or scarce
satisfaction while a person becomes reluctant; such charming mechanisms such
enriching behaviors while something lives something has to die; this deeper
science this mental war where everyone is projecting self; this product meant
to feel this rollercoaster we disdain or certain realities where nothing makes
sense.
—most
would be furious but not that man while Love is shoveling disgrace; this winter
coming this autumn raining or summer cuffs. such
fancy
elements so missed by actions while justified by something wicked: if to hear
that story, as to listen through it, while
needing
to vomit; the disasters we face, measured by our bodies, where it means nothing;
our
loving parents or some from the streets as to call out our conscienceness—
it
becomes
sublime
an
entire life, where most are seeking a savior; to un-muddy existence to play Atari
if but never to ask for clarity; while I’ll never this light where one is
dancing where falling to sanity isn’t important.
