by
feral fortune to have loved partway while expecting triumph, legacy, or
obedience. a man to his screams an obituary to one missing while religion
points to ghosts; if but by alms as to relocate a soul a listless man a
controlled man. our photic watts our doorbells our untethered deeper affairs.
such itching such bleeding while pain remains serene; so clad in you, so torn
by you, while true writing has a reservoir of anguish. to learn to fly or sulfur
rich humiliation while others are peaches, delicacies, or first romances. so
sightless or so too far, while grieving us has taking its deliberation. by tides
or failings so many people while a brain is under water; as looking at insanity
where a soul has tried to dislocate—if but anything you claim to exist for; so
barren, an unfruitful disposition, while souls are flabbergasted. such drumming
trauma, such reaming clarinets, where a man is too sick not to share. while Love
would strum, or wishes into a planet, if but this human wish—to have but us to
die but us if but to adore while life becomes such opulence: such a deep
secret, but I’ll give but game, if committed, free of physical injury, one experiences
such radicalized bliss. if two are willing, if but to try it for a year, they
see such delicate tranquility. but a fool poet, he can’t know dung, for we
enjoy such as incredible variety: a captive belly, a deceitful mid-brain, while
spread so thin, butter is dripping into carpet. some can’t give self, for self
is shallow, while men need Class Awesome women!
