by
phonograph to lean into hearing such trickling such holy essence. so refaced
into direction too weary to pay attention. (the mansion is bleeding our doctor
is withering as souls carry torches—the blazing of skies those invisible
creatures so far indented it seems material.) I had a story. it was so
abandoned. it seemed so rehearsed; for it lacked nuance, but fever in me, while
it sounded redundant. I met a creature such a public recluse, I was amazed by asymmetrical
balance; indeed, sweet agonies or sweeter paradox where most of us have the
shakes. our place in our mirrors those reluctant whispers while spinning enough
to disappear; as returning to vision, a bit moved by science, where a spouse
just happened to see us.
but his story or our
ghettoes or bypassed as overlooked; to dig into social location or eyes made
mystic where reality is suffocated winds—so bland to some so intriguing to
others or untidy to self. sure into fire some blanket while rising up quicksand—those
chains those wires while steep in some jungle—the mind or cultic tides or
oceans at one breath too evolved to appreciate forthcoming death!
Love
is super-tongues bubbling into wilderness, as souls distressing each other. as
some person in an unfamiliar realm with different pigmentation; those
presumptions while we select our words as close knitted to our insinuations. the
Great Signature as an interior assignment to have lived so valiantly as a child:
raw, unearthed rain, or grief through terror, such a nightmare to find Christ:
those clocks ringing those alarms ticking while his greatest trial was seeing
his reflection.
I go in there to air-out dungeons.
those become such strength. by anxious aches or reared for ransom, we thirst
for water, welts, & worship. as sacrificed elements or ghosts screaming
while healed but broken. such fear in imperfection. so many strange islands. I have
learned that reality is lonely.
