we
lance anxieties feeling like mud flaps so keen on beauty: such a gateway, or
dilemma, so suffused by rosarium eyes. stolen from Jesus, filched from hell, as
steady in limbo. a man to seaweed, a woman to wedgewood as carving liberty.
molasses or malaise, anger or aggression, so fruitless, flamed, while famished.
pure dissonance in just about life where souls concentrate on friendships. I reappeared
to self, close to hours passed, so infatuated with daydreams—watching for its
ante so useless to happiness such gravel for hives: does it move, is it
concrete, such to call it love? such dampish swamps so much marsh upon a
lacewing or a flamingo; as quaffing mud or moonshine so enlove it carries a
curse. I disappeared a bit unboxed while seated at a bus stop. the jacket was lukewarm
those meanings in moments where Love was most astonishing—as extravagant
creatures over a bowl of gumbo too established to be considered extraordinary—our
deceased cravings when pain is non-negotiable while something drives to succeed.
likeness to running in a dream those beds are flipping such angst breaks its
skies; those argent pavements those gray billiards at grass, face first, where
neatness was screaming. I opened a cedarchest. I grabbed a memento. it spoke
softly: such passion in mother those men damaging while aloof as sung such radiant
discontinuance: a pure prayer a raving web-scar or father’s antiphon; such neuroses
so to erode saintly while Malcolm’s mother knew deterioration.
such cozen
delights where I can’t but I must into something a mental galaxy; by fair fire
or un-watered wetness or hard soft candy. it happens at dawn it was horrible
come rain while sailing seemed so natural. often, we see deterioration. we
consider our indifference. where we do not act with compassion. but what if is
hurts, one doesn’t listen, where we have done something radical; for it’s by
nature, it lives in its hiss, it stands close to the Coal’s love; so unzipped,
as one to fess dearly, while unable to feel the hurt we cause others: it’s not
there it’s not knocking, we have become dullness or triteness or impenetrable survivors.
