tailored
to love souls or at minimum feel curiosity. it’s better than intrigue some
passing indigo our old selves most self-interested. looking like lost, or
feeling frost frantic, in angst aware of ascetics. a mere cartoon a soothing
tone such shade, timbre, or decoration. we shouldn’t, but we guard infatuation,
don’t get mad, but we look at ladies in tights – those yoga pants, those hidden-obvious
contours – as carving your name so captivated, I might be wrong, but Love likes
sex, needing more than sex. so great our hubris, so deep our haughtiness, while
needing enthrallment. a tattoo as for life, a scream as for justice, while just
for sex satisfies something. a centimeter into crosswise frets or a kilometer
running home at dear-dying to have something unprepared for us – a man unsaid an
emotion unborn while a fetus sits in cosmos.
a
Sprite a cigarette so carved by our brains. a little time feeling selfish. it
isn’t a crime! while most intuitions stumble into a greater secret: soft touch
when it hurts, southern eyes on northern soil, or it must be good, of value,
while we have each other. it takes surrendering, such as to arrive, where many
refused to feel you – some pained monopoly, knowing days are desecrated, where
one expects most unyielding purity. I can’t be mean, when scents change, but I’m
quite sensitive to perspectives. underneath roots or soil bleeding as thunder
struck its tree. but dough to rolling pins or noodles to sauce or rice to
broth; a fair friend as broken plans while something feels freer – such as
manumission or seasoned consumption so battled by private miracles. sure
clemency or chaos brewing, one stays open nightly. a dream defender a vision
knitter such an imaginary safeguard. some fantast. driving through San Francisco.
headed back to Los Angeles.
