“in
my day the fields were cotton those animals were humans—so uncured so cursed
but it would flow like normality.” the daughter feels fire those words in
script while mother was a sculptress. the rooms are bleeding the office is
furious those spiders are spawning webs. such emotion such a day while we
celebrate our discontent. so paramystical as it means nothing! where flavor
becomes extraterrestrial.
those
faces those gurus those sages. a pictograph of sex, an ideograph of said sex,
while with pity we lay a claim on a stranger’s body; but Love would die first,
call her Dr. Reality, where she would prefer impregnating herself—so raw
so
vicious such a matriarch.
such
hardwood so carved into America while spacing over phonograms. (it would die in
penalties so hung by trees with ancestors as ghosts—the rage of menticide the
longtime comings or rereading on Polycarp.) a ravaged soul as by permission to
ask why one needs such degradation. love was matrimony
the
night of its wedding
so
destroyed by indiscretion; or recitative such an argument so manic into a woman
he dearly needs the fuel of the bridge as guts implode where passion was
unreasonable!
needing
medical or to have it snatched where we believe,
“Each
to his own!”
into
its gurney so thrown by deaths as this becomes our lives: the Communist
smiling, the Aristocrat recruiting enemies, or the Oligarch so smug
he
misses his family.
too
sewn by miracles so much a fan while we mimic The Great Exodus. those people as
they become presidents where “absolute power is absolute corruption”
or
so close to dying—America is expendable!
