I know
not of hours it drifts in solace so uncured feeling normal. a mere paperweight
or origami faces at dear salutes in London. I have not wanted to make
excellence with every need to make perfection while disillusioned concerning some
lesson. the mania was pantomime or vocal as it might trespass; or transgression
made affable in a net for sinning. if touched I might scream if sundry into
pieces I might plead. so fresh it hurts as knowing liaisons where excellence
was its miracle.
upon
a Jewish gown, abroad an island, Plath might unredeem our carriage. or Sexton
might cry, an acidic charmless tear, with angst on its trail. I don’t want
understanding. I don’t need elocution. I need for relationality, and then,
absence.
it’s not in place,
some room inside, where she might be devilish if spoken to abruptly.
the foot of the roof, as inside-outside,
or stuccos at art a window that died. our upset faces while it hurts, but she
knew her reactions.
a chair supports indifference she
might have vomited it was dung to face to hear my luxury. as hated for color or
despised for dreams where a person’s functionality is like shitty rhetoric. I have
run out of petitions, I have engulfed her provisions, it feels odd to surrender
so early in life.
sullen papier-mâché or turquoise
sexual damage as one is wanted to destroy his insecurities.
every season like autumn every
auburn leaf like a mistake or raven mane attached to inaccessibility. those
tacit charms those ruby eyes while surprised deaths would taste but sweet.
I would a beach or Shri Lanka while
we were chasing sunshine lotus. at christic beginnings or sins held captive, while
memories sickle into damnation.
a manic man might trespass gates. he
might eat of fruits from skies. he might love, but essence was selected his
charm. an old ponderosa a country in Arkansas or a woman from Tibet.
such poetess cities if drained of
petty shit, as to acknowledge a poetess is bad ass.
maybe in a novella maybe those
fingers or maybe in a novel – to ride horses to wear leather or to discard a
satchel; maybe to feel existence to love like lazy up and until awakening
filled with vengeance. those morbid luxuries those morose joys, while content
with happiness passing. such an ambulance such a diabetic injection as certain
to have lived before.
