I shouldn’t go low such sweet, miserable misery – those knees as pleading blueberry wishes so coarse as night mildew. such cold crack those melodious tragedies while it rained trying to strike a match. shielded from nothing. a horrible estate, by riches in dementia. sure cadence certain thunder a spider bit her face. indeed, a pipe cracked, glass flew, a face was burnt. in dark pleasure or hideous exploitation where an icon traffics. so desperate to be whorelike so intent on mutual respect, while biting to draw blood. a man caught a case it was consensual rape he did years feeling justified. indeed, a habit a bit more intricate, serving another sentence.
I was
younger I met a psychopath it was a crazed mother. by darkness to claim light a
sociopath saying, “Bless Jesus!” the grit of sunshine those wrinkles in
devastation the beauty of yearning for hell. I just imagine her psychiatrist,
as observing weird language, to intuit into what was written. (you may not
know, you may not care, but ethnic is an anomaly out the gate – we just need to
find it!)
so pessimistic so angelized so indifferent as some person tired of hearing it.
made enjoined to legacy, but nothing tender, while studying psychology; if to find us to locate a nucleus while coming far from liquids. a nine-year-old – was guzzling gin – his mother laughed!
so
much a punishment but for eyes only, “What can I do with you?” same kid years
into moons smoking reefer – “What can I do with you?” more to angst, a speed
chase, as it hit the news – money thrown out of a droptop window. I sat to meet
a legend. I sensed an evilness. it was crazed to meet such a young spirit.
another in Vegas, they robbed a casino, it seemed too unreal.
I have no aim right now. my seat is watching me. the world is a chameleon. I know a woman. it seems disruptive. but she seeks solace from anyone. such a load, her man sitting still, but this is her nature. so thrown to cotton fields, so lucky as destroyed, plus, we hate each other. it makes for weak beings, the flame wrinkling, while Love was too blasted for the photoshoot. tears from balloons more tar for veins – what has happened to New Orleans?
cirrhosis of the culture. or tyranny of the tidal-wave. as stopping by graves sprinkling out reefer. may the ghosts get fried may it get better, because we hate each other.
