what
becomes of a performance? if pleasing, we applaud. but it often irrigates pain.
by irritability a child is a slave, begging for closure, becoming a set
pathology. by drugs one is pliable or approachable, while a split instance
might overreach. so dead in there, so imperfect it disgusts, with too many
problems for shady ass normality. people become either soft beauty or burden
central. so intrusive so many years with a soul scraping, scratching or
screaming out of his scalp.
mother
was precious a dynamite survivor with sheer cuffs dangling over others. mother
had dreams or illusions or penalties for others. but shivering rage her veins
while wailing at dementia: by ghosts or banshees as serenading some vicious
interior image. it becomes unsubtle it looks menacing it salutes monsters: it
feels at home or indeed endears something society rejects: it feels voiceless
it can’t change it’s gutted by sheer reality. such forces inside damn near suicidal
but a palm filled with a burning cherry.
I’ll
skip it if to scream royal so bold or indifferent; as never a gift, as never
submission, while power is a sure infection. an untamed mystic where
religiosity was peace while we hate calmness for others; such petite presence
or vacuuming galaxies while a poet has a thousand demons. but poppa laid roads
a woman was fantasy where granny was at another planet; too cold for winter too
hot for summer where a fool saw too much; those bars those humans to awaken
somewhere in a semi-dimension; melodic flashbacks, or opera hatred, or such to
analyze his living.
I
skip meanness such screaming where it was beauty to unface its hook. those
places you need me to explore—those stomachs spitting me out—or a man losing
his God. the rain dripping the mud soggy or snails in our streets. to get more
than enough, to unravel with spirits choking if but too high to see Jesus. by
fierce agendas as to have met a magician so eerie so gelid so fleshed or
diamond: those days assessing it, those nights debating it, where a fool was
tripping in pieces: Love was pudding Love meant harm Love never met me. those
apogees those impasses while floored to ruins so much to success! a gut melting
or intestines chuckling at detriment or pleasure—& there was mother as hung
by face falling into disappearance. those muscles are unseemly these gnats talk
too damn much while a man is trying something felt incomplete.
it
was a spell it rushed forward it was once so neat: as boxed away, or made
hardened, while a woman became a spigot: such pouring into, such drenching to
see it, where if healed it should have no problem with regurgitation. to
display your madness to unvault your safe place while a stranger validates your
sturdiness. but hell to it. such churning or running if but to alleviate
further discomfort. it should always be there, hanging at the front door where
a man carries his personality.
I
have no business in you. I must rewrite our screenplay. I must spark, sprout,
or shelter something long to its death. by firewood to sit stillness, or deeper
freezers to shed fire, while knowing you has been the most to uncertainty. so
much we don’t speak, as entering for freedom, to unvoice an interior milieu. such
raw fierceness pure esoteria where it didn’t repay as suspected. those
skylights upon footlights where souls are lightfast—such battles so daunting
while I remember someone’s exterior; our absconding spirits, our abated
greatness, where mother would warn about the teasing treason; as paradise
creatures, but the best in your ink, by neural ecstasy; too many facets such
dear aspects while in this life we must unmask.
