sore
troubled ink, a mud-flap feeling, to filch a stolen diamond! those hives in
brains his course was lonely, his agenda was foreign. in absence we demand
accountability the criminal was refused a trial. a soul is unzipped a sunflower
assails a daffodil a man realized mortality. a hand gave seaweed a knuckle popped in class or angles where a person needs to live. so trained by nuns such
remorse for breathing where popularity determines our inadequacies. the ante is
existence. by touch we rush silence. where most are overly indebted. such
harvested swamps begging forgiveness where one just desires another liaison. so
much to reach a soul in agony where drugs are an answer. the gateway those arts
so accused of noncompliance—walking by wedgewood or floating on wild-berries so
much absent language as un-esteemed creatures a designated number while one
needs higher excellence. pain as mementos love as a casino or deaths as segues;
so filthy so muddy while ever-so clear; sitting in marsh, trekking wildwood, so
stolen from the life we chose! I
heard hissing I saw rattlers I knew language would suffer. such topaz skies or turquoise earth where
adoring others becomes troubled; such distance to kiss, such rites to make
love, such absence to realize life. so sublime the mystic as acute wilderness
or a city dweller; if but to rule existence, it might be unchained, where most
are locked by nature of the beast. airborne comets as uncreated existence so
effused so splintered while flesh would devastate its inhabitance. too much to
flute too unestablished for a solvent, so wild as our inherited trouble.
too curious so
unorthodox too wild for sociality; so calm or battled such bellicose silence—at
solidarity, bound inside, a troubled man. such thicket malaise, or uncured
animosities, while semi-blaming what I can’t see! or mother to father, such
nothingness to graves, while too many at nose bleeds. a pound of coffee, a cup
of powders, with spasms so evident the skies are wailing! (too gorgeous for
truths, to frightened for love, at some terrible country tree. a man to
quaffing, or a woman to delicacies, while so upright we fair better on crooked
plains. too unboxed too irrelevant vying for entrance; as uncooked emotions,
such raw feelings, too troubled to exclaim—the roses of the garden those fevers
in souls the touch is the strongest!)
