—by
gleam or tint or damages or glory, to live like doves or nectar sweet poison,
such cliffs those blue diamonds, our hives our bearlike worries—
to
story our buildings to unravel ingredients slow clocks remind me of existence—those
bulwarks those exospheric screams as lost or sold-free unto pleading to start
one last time—those interior books our mental cameras while each force is effervescent—our
cadence on good days our fury by fire rekindled by firebrand—
by
alleluia or deeper Selah to pause or ponder where lakes are flammable; those
corners sanded the center inverted while alienation has married margins; such
nectar pain or feeling too much while so close to abandoning me—at fireworks
come autumn at cakes or gambling come winter or eyes I couldn’t forsake; such fragmented
elements or carefree freedoms at some disease hoping one might ignore it; our
battling minds our curt responses while a person has a thirty years hunch.
—liters
this life or kilometers to phantoms so pure but cursed or uncured and steady—those
watts flickering those flames you induced if but to get to this stage—green-turquoise
eyes or so slaughtered while an eldest child has become a reminder—where mother
needed beauty but beauty was rejection to sit and cuddle in a lonely corner—the
hallways are bleeding the doorposts covered with ears or the big toe besprinkled
with blood—to be wonderful without confirmation or so close it might die for
comfort—such static such empirical reason where the premise is so deadly—
it
was hell to live it while no one made inquiry those rooms but talkative smoke.
a
pipe made of glass a powder made rock and a lighter for effusion; those
personalities those affirmations while pure dysfunction produced a partly
correct man. we ask for normality, we curse the bishop, while so incorrect it
has become parody; our satire women, so gifted, so incredible, while anything
they say becomes concrete; such pure power, to make a man, or to destroy
everything he tends to destruct; our fathers watching our grandparents raising
us or so fortunate one is merely deranged; our guts, Love, our minds, Love,
while I came so close to becoming more.
those
burlesque wars, a man in his head, to grab ropes and leap; this interior fugitive
those framed meanings, (where, I must admit, it drives the losing man).
—two
weeks so un-filmed, a conversation so inconsequential, while chaos is every
breath: so skilled at it, it becomes its trophy, just to realize I can fracture
serenity; such true power, to look at a person, and realize relapse is in their
palms; such misery no one calls, such intimacy with devastation, where a man
might in order to love again; but an artificer or something unexplained while individualization
is a cry for abandonment; but some are destined they sing acapella while the
spirit is a foursome; our fulsome souls our abandoned slums where a man
climbed, got close, and leaped for his trophies; as managed creatures so close
to edges while others are hoping for escape; such innate misfits such pressure
for a rich woman while kids are growing wits—
Some
people suffer from atrophy. They must struggle to develop. They, too, must remember
the journey. Such uncaged souls running back to cages for the design is debt!
