who’s the crypt-keeper, or the vault-keeper, or where are
those brains?
over
laughter to sip a funny bone nothing particular to discuss.
wallpaper filled with lumps drawer
paper assaulted by droppings or more pressure to exist. such by life. most sound
like rubbish. where a man becomes anti-himself; such fret or mud, such self-depreciation,
where many men feel frantic; the age of dying, the phantom so clandestine,
while most play pretend.
seabed estuaries. brown gorgeous
eyes. so simplistic/so absolute! the fragile ego or far too strong or a bit
insensitive. (it seemed familiar while it remained aloof where we often cross
currents.) some share a magnet those faces unlocking us such tribal strumming;
or to hear souls, so blindfolded, laughing afore a firing squad; the last piece
of sanity a thin thread to fall feeling sad happiness.
at
times, I gaze in so steeply, it becomes difficult, apricot, chopped speech.
minds play salsa. physiology tells sagas. while most feel uncreated.
I watch something
tiger-like something mysterious or something his stern mirror. white lights or
white noise while asking, “What the hell was that?” a serpent’s dialogue or
southern flickers in a northern hemisphere: those greens with ham chunks, or
beauty with ethics, or amazingly someone orphanized with core normality.
self
becomes its chaperone a woman becomes her dearest therapist while a man learns
to accept certain imperfections. it carves slowly it looks like butchery where
a tinge leans towards dear disappointment. so drab that point. so harmonious
those horizons. while myth is magic like women are mystics where life can be
joyous.
nothing seems gentle, or easy, while
so many maps for under-wolves.
