I adore imageries. I do not know full essence. I have
a tinge of you.
it
was 2 a.m., into a darker scream, when you cried; mother was exempt, lost in
ukiyoe, beckoned to nurse. we would never die, this assault on mortality, those
leaves watching spirits.
I
feel awkward, wailing about love, where we see syntax, cadence, dissonance, or
undercurrents. so anchored or agile, so autonomous or angelic, or pure absence
as abeyance.
I
revel over you, or so occupied by you, while detached as a form by survival. we
walk sepulchers, recounting existence, so beige such fury or such soft unknowingness.
to have ghosts those tears, to have found silence those years, while debating
with rabis those years.
its
crypt is full those walls are melding or those skies are teary—to have lived
this innocence, where it becomes muddy while some have lived it as familiarity.
we marvel these people. they look normal. but they die if involved in something
stable. they desire chaos, or foreign revival, they live by tribal rules. it’s
never shared, the sun is a cartoon, while they remain unlit. we infer things. I
speak to lost souls. while I do not claim as one found.
I’m
glued at one end, tethered at another, and needing a good laugh. a treasured
creature a loving face if but to pretend life is normal. shaving words, or
shearing sheep, while I pray to artistries. this interior calm, this artifice
incision, where we atone by surrendering. our stomachs giggling our minds
frothy while so unfamiliar to ourselves.
watch
for our afreet particles, in a land offering delusion, where we’re wondering
about immunity. so fretted over form or frantic over vices as looking at
genetic disposition; those unvetted realities, especially, so familiar, as
watching it one’s entire life. this thesis in me, this dissertation in
professors, where isolation from it might be too naïve; such misty/foggy
mornings, such hazy/hazel corridors, our fair-minded Christians.
I sing about Sade or Alicia keys or Beethoven.
I
amble a violin I cure a sad haven or to walk along a Yellow Brick Road. as sold
to controversy a life my father’s or leaping higher to smell an apparition. and
there was mother lashing grandfather or renegotiating her sins; this trespass
in science this bridge in wilderness this curse this alienation this boredom in
life; as confused where it must be this irrationality in its epithets.
it
was granny this infusion this isolated kiss; to live while dying, or to adore a
daughter, where it has become too much changing; as needing to grin, while
suffused by indifference, if but to survive. it couldn’t be this life this love
this feudal internal person; to giggle or laugh while aching in horizons where
no one is winning. but to each their logic to each their ghosts—and if it feels
good the world is more disdained.
