I miss
the laughter, a little boy in me, admiring the Beloved.
But life
is serious our faces are stern our music is concentration; to have kef in you
while losing you where reality must meet with facts. By value or detriments
while life disrupts flowers, if but
to
see reflection as an ursinia; our cables disjunct our reasoning infantile while
we hate with utter sensation; the sink is filthy the tiles are discolored our
minds giggling or whistling—our
daughters
a bit young with it; to despise a man for no greater reason than he spoke
something hard to conceal; or maybe he was sick, a man without medication,
where unless two are sexual,
we
can’t accept that. (years are numeric where numerology is skeptical while a man’s
word should accommodate his actions; grandpa is mad or granny is investigating
while brooks are
specializing
in decoding the codification; the moon is liquid the sun is bloody our minds
are cursed for uncursed and then cursed again; our moods are shifting, while
sitting in stillness,
(believe
of disbelieve, but someone is good at that); to know consciousness after
decades of training while I’m still screaming, Christ!) our broken
literature our laughing axioms where Love
touched
me out of pure maxim; the room has an echo the mirror is resonance or the
window is blotted with rain drops; the raisin is running the geese are chasing
or a pigeon just sat on my shoulder; our blanket highs our cigarette bleak
while innocence is taking a cold turn; those delicate features or a tacit
feature or a vocal and quite dominant feature; to impress you is too hard, you
know my pedigree, plus, I have that illness called, proper distance.
It was pain to
smile and this is law to keep one where reality is blurry. Some have it
determined: a decent breakfast, mapped – out receptivity, plus, everyone
catering to their concerns and needs or ravens and scarecrows; our breakage – points,
our desiccate unhappiness, while so dry earth is combustion; our pills for
divinity our science as rooted aliens so wild so confident the music is
preaching their fame; where most are at war – time or many are becoming Jewish
if but to study while dependent upon something changing; or Lebanese mothers,
or Mexican mothers – We die for our children – those tragic wars this
lite bleeding its integrity where others are prone to discredit anything; that
cagy nuance but Love is adorable as we dive into pure dysfunction; as gauged from
afar, to rely on proclivities, where an anomaly just entered the forth corridor;
our ageless conundrums this fire too damn lethal where a man fell twice to
arise as something indiscernible.
