I ink soulmate is a joke, while some are gifted, she might be a man’s dementia; his mental index, so stuffed with addiction, as never a womb like that. so superficial, as enlove with looks, where we need a little bit of that. by rich macro-cells, or unfelt microcells, a man so destroyed he cries for mercy. scratching essence stickers, reminiscing on pity, so tugged beyond what he might give. mental trips as lost in Vienna such sunrise devastation. I never saw such a body, too aesthetic so
thetic while I nonetheless made wreckage. upon cardboard, but a box, filled with notebooks—so baptized or a hankering for nuns, while we ask, “Why such addiction to something made holy?” such fumes such odors to kiss, re-spent, where tongues are orgasmic; the origami games, the paper boat pain, or snippets of a man’s sanity. if but his soul into a creek if but a queen pets a frog—so terrible its lovemaking such raging compassion so lost a sick ass dog! too many shelves but never
enough shelves so many photo-fires; as rebuked centipedes or hostile demons at cineplexes naked or damn near passed the bleep out! such mental illness such cutting those years where a man is frightened for her; too many news clippings, or sexual brochures, where Love is quite playful. I ink soulmate is a joke, for some are acquainted with rain, so attuned to wreckage, so easy to fall into orbits with; so much a studio or so deaf to science too wild but life is debating rules—those
axioms
for Love those doors in Love while a man never felt that way. such stronger
souls those videotapes those favors while tasting our dear elixir—the curse of
the mountain the soul of the olive garden or such raw sickness fretting his
bleeping guts. to die aeipathy to strive for meraki so thrust into a quasi-forgiving-unholy
holiness! the painting so beautiful the deaths so electric the art so
intellectual; by chemic dynasty or fire in minds so close to you—I now hate us!
