unwet,
dripping pride, such tiff melancholy.
to
sweep fragments as parts sung humans—
those
mahogany women such fierce aches—
a
language desperate by fire or a woman so
ivory
a man conflicts: if beautiful is pain,
if
daughters hate at times, if weight hangs
upon
a psych. we know it hurts. we ignore
its
poison. we unfeel its pleasure. —by ink
so impure
so impious its angst is pure peril—
more
valleys more swamps while they never
fathom
pure dissociation. those persons he
worships—those
dead icons—those peg
sparks!
such to admire, or even lust-after
where
pain took his place, or damages gutted
his
ship—such precious deaths, such brooks
in
heaven, while perceived as too smart!
so
neural! so dynamic. while feeling alone.
those
fires her furnace if to take his rain! by
lost
chemicals, or midnights at a screen, so
impure,
such a heart, or too much into ethics.
she
might ghost-out. so under flame. where
most
don’t see her. too stoic, for it hurts, so
estranged,
a dear woman, into ruined monsoons.
