I feel like a five
neither low neither above but so conscious. I feel like loving her or
discarding her or submitting to intolerance. it’s wild this pain, so much a
preacher dies, we can’t lose composure. a home bleached a zinnia as witness
where we yell, deteriorate, by planets or skulls a soul becomes a skeleton.
hands in succession, a row aside a pew, a scream for a dungeon. stairs bleeding
we gather bones while adoring her was natural.
a bag of penalties
a festoon of miseries a feeling too beautiful to receive. a cut for a spirit as
leaking holiness too lowdown to believe. by rage to become feathers such
contradiction in humans. a game we play, one must play in return, while
categorization becomes evidence. the authority of the official those things we
can’t say, where a man was led to destruction – his eyes his demeaner his
resolve as offensive.
I loved so lowly
as summonsing entirety – to borrow identity to vacuum pride so lost for her; a
squeaky soul a miracle it might occur wild ass suspension. but filth in me
clutching purity in her so maladjusted inside; a fit on brinks a cage for
pagans—it gets so fiery; a whipped back 4 million blacks where they all point a
finger.
soft texture,
rolling passions at marks in stone in grains. snowflakes as so different blood
green pain leaping to play guitar. a confused man a lenient man while too much
might hurt. pure distrust but physical addiction we fail to un-closet our aches
– for sorrow for agony for rich, unadulterated seduction.
