I would
desire passion, a sick glass Pablo, to find while stumbling, a home in the
Hills. so chocolate so petite too thin but life—the ghosts those waves as deep
into Indian beauty. such happenstance so galore in shadows such poise at its
doorposts. by vacuum by trust as if love surrenders, those aches those yelps while
a man was losing senses. too elitist to evolved while so raunchy. the fire at
camp the flame at furnace so much a dear friend. but a young man as rolling a beast
or too many riches inside; too serious to dance too attached to chance while
gorgeous moon needed aggression. I would admire passion, too sick with thunder,
so quick to provoke, too silent to win. a need for confrontation a need for a
man losing senses so uncured so provocative or existential to a fault. I adored
its ingredients while pining over jam such buttocks too aesthetic for closure;
such raw fluids such trickles of blood so scented it was hell to abandon. years
into ridiculous so remote to a channel as a conduit in his psyche. too real to
surrender such pain to remember while Love just had a child. I appear to me I appeal
to society it becomes aggression—or grownup masculinity. but dear justice, such
cupping breasts such grip for a man only seventeen at age. so quiet so silent
while needing into a blue horizon. the rain as it wagers those odic fevers if
but to imagine life without forethought; a woman’s scream her activity if but
one would forget rules! true fierceness, as dying to possess, where Life become
Jackie Collins! I would admire death, so dark into a windmill or so naked it
felt like vulnerability. at age with violence at souls with contempt while to
possess like the nastiest creation in cosmos. too rare in an instance or too
giant in sequence as aborted into pure filth!
