The
poet watches by deaths so infused by contradiction to be a poet or to be sad,
while those ‘things’ are similar in sameness. A piece of hair as a wire this is
a poet’s balance. Life is rich tragedy so damn tragic a poet waters inside –
the sky is blueness – or turquoise is not so beautiful. I was so elated but I could
not feel it while I resisted inhumanity; a feather in his throat while choking
violently but a poet would understand. What I want I might not need. What I receive
I might not want. Damn! The fucking grave! Too fretted too hurt while tears
roll in this phantasm. The poet is a stage but it cuts while running to
concupiscence: to die harsher to die uneasy or to appear a day after death. A
girl is making crosses. She keeps flogging her flesh, the skin is ripping; some
riff in her brains, a baby is crying, it just popped out!
So better to live in a jungle than
to die as unwanted. A fear in Kierkegaard a funeral in Camus a century over a
new poet is dying. Looking at sweet deception so enthralled by sweeter lies as
wondering if we know our parents. I cannot understand but what I understand
where many disagree with what we understand. To see it kills to know like
Medusa as closed eyes made love. It hurts so much by decadent pleasure, I fear
normality has failed me: cherries are not there, loquats taste like sin, I cannot
figure what it means to be appointed as in killing identity, lineage, or more,
those with unyielding innocence.
The poet is Milton
or Augustine or prose breaking oceans or beating skies as made in bloody clouds!
Uranus spoke. Saturnine becomes the poet. A love might lagoon an encyclopedia. Eating
sawgrass upon concrete sulking into her deaths. The poet might never breathe,
with hearts pounding, to unlock the mystic bolt.
