some attachment,
for we die attachment, while wiggling away from attachment. I’d rather by love,
or by need, a man fumbling his wings; passing years or romantic soil a tussock
dry with moisture. by navigation or terror the haunt became sweetness. as
remains rot or feelings intense, where a person understands one’s wickedness. “You
know by illness, so be careful,” where we take more truths from strangers. I noticed
instability or unevenness where it was simple to ignore us—by dark horizon by
electric voltage or simply opting out. so much before time or such a hectic marriage
where no one understands us. we die deliberate skies we puncture screaming
lungs so dear a cigarette those seconds. a cringing woman so unthreaded where
nothing becomes soothing. such visceral words by interior webs while breaking
old dragons—those fevers as gusts those winds as mayflies our swamps filled by
marsh. to scud faster or whisk in meters as so adapted to learning crystals. by
mind-caves or ocean mountains such algae on our affairs; tough jerky a raw beer
or days feeling more that horizon; as crazy souls so thrown into us where it’s
wild, we might fret each other. was it terror, or satisfaction, to have disavowed
such innocence? was death glorious, so much so, it was fed to an infant? was it
stillborn passion, or it might have been, such liquor to his gums? true
deviation or his life on trial while too many felt it; by fatidic (prophecy)
pain those ghetto rivalries while most hate the hard struggle. it must be easy.
it must be quick; for too much time is room for investigation. but neither here
nor there when a man finds her. so much is familiar—so much is different—albeit,
all with sameness, a man is addicted. those eyes, Kunis. such fierce, Prepon!
or years at his screams.
