I die harder or rewrapped such Styrofoam. I
broach love, its topic, its spice, chitlins or drug store. I never fathomed the
team as unseen into a cup—halfway full! I needed films or eyes or depth a screw
as it moves. so unfastened, so crooked, raking into a goddess—so cursed so
enlove while so misbelieved. it seasons well. it manifests good energy. it’s
loyal to anything but its reflection. I used to phantom it, or a steak such
silence, while immersed in fury or shame. I loved like winning. I felt good for
losing. but never an ache so pure it abandons its miracles. so, tell me about
love. tell me how it feels terrific. or tell me truth, it’s hard, but it
breeds. so close it’s awkward. so ridiculous it’s fun. or making passion with
room to laugh or fly. —for it was niceness, it was haven, it was hell’s wrath.
a part for giggling, a piece for shattering, a part for duplicity. (I see a
woman or a dear fatality or too perfect—it must be his mind; a problem asking
questions, a child looking for longevity, or affected for ruined pleading for
ecstasy.) a mountain for tablets a pen for ink a paper for screams; a diary in
you, a memoir in us, while so close it feels good to be at a distance. I read
as I hawked such rare concentration while I composed: a man in a sewer, a
feline in a gutter, while we once worshiped our ghetto. (so lonely at seconds
or too proud to speak or too cursed to pretend: a running fever a scattered
dream while public life becomes pure embarrassment: those days so recluse or
odd habits while I have a hard time figuring you out. it might be glorious
there, it might feel good there, but it must feel enigmatic there.)
