The
public is forgiving long into that sweet night while wolves count casualties.
To
arrive early where Love is cooking a nine-year-old is playing Zelda. I cleave
intestines I grin as summonsed but aggravation is boiling.
I
adore on sight this pantomime voice this yelling countenance; to have something
as akin to winnings where it was grand illusion.
But
Agony ruled seas or Anguish bespoke oceans where touching palms seemed
irrevocable.
Our
minds jaded our milk dyed while
Anxiety
came to visit.
I
was curled with you we wiped tears with liquor it was tender delusion; our
needs for fantasy our hearts repaved while many possessed keys.
Flesh is screaming
or eyes are penetrating so clumsy but standing our truths. I would cherish as
if my own as if too lost to stagger away; the sepals bleeding the tepals are
absorbing while I have influence over aching; the ovary of the plant the
estrogen of the father or the testosterone of the mother; such nectary such
beautiful pageantry or often underrated; our smooth dialogue our tares or weeds
where leaves are ruining our lawn; a passionate excuse those moments we must
leave where others accept so much.
The nectar of
richness those indisputable ironies if but to passion with fierce rawness: a
man tried so hard, designating locations, where assumption asserted mind
follows body. Our selves betraying our delusions while hoping for sweet
saffron; vinegar was enormous the back alleys were junky while one danced and
laughed and seduced false illusions; to have loved ourselves, where evidence is
gnawed and gnashed, while we force something that doesn’t exist; our casual
plights become serious confusion where a man might die by seizure.
