the beast hangs by sycamore those eyes bore into skulls the beast wants to repent. so many shattered colors our American dreams in distant sirens—they sound where some life is at its end or some miracle is at its peak. we might outwit ourselves or out unique ourselves but nothing seems to outsoar consciousness—our miracle our immortality our deepest unfathomable instinct. weaved over wefts or mental crosswise at prayers aside water. into turquoise/expansive wiles sure sugary smiles so earnest so careful such explosion. Jeremiah in soul as lives a flower such a nameless flower—near a tree such wood with tiny ants such charisma in nature. raisin ladybugs or floating butterflies plus a beast is watching. the beast is gathering berries. the beast is making wine. the beast is writing liturgies. so much patchwork so many tragedies at some private universe. it can’t be romantic at times it can’t love with binoculars at times and it can’t be on guard at all times.
it
seems rules are cultural behavior is
indicative while personality is cross-cultural.
the beast is watching with flippancy. the beast is analytical. the beast does
satire naturally pointing out irony
or discussing insignificance or acting arrogant condemning arrogance. the irony
of the beast the broken colors of the beast whether or not the beast claimed
identity. so tailored for discomfort or wrestling personality with little reach
into the beast inside.
