we shot out
looking like heathens so draped in draperies. today is different. today is bad.
today is good. a cherry wine a bag of grapes a woman became a legacy. too much
to capture too wise too curious like a monkey named George. so much to take so
little to give, running through sugarcane—wrestling doubt akin to her guts like
roses on a rainy day. a man died for you. a man gave soul for you. a man cried
unto a headache. it was low in rain it was depression making love it felt
detached honor. lifeblood for passion will we survive? another made upholstery
another became a chair another fell hard for his social worker. make it work
make it kill make it find remorse. so easy to fall like horses, vying in
combat, a lake pouring into her eyes: algae, plankton, a platypus. too cold to
find friends. too alive for most to notice. too grandiose to feel comfortable.
we made pancakes,
mother was smiling, a second passed, she escaped to her dungeon.
how to give? how
to live? affected by a forty-year-old virgin. try not to laugh, it seems crazy,
like anything can make news. a soul shook left, met death, fraught by kef.
too much to ask
for you. too little to praise you. it means nothing unless receptive.
signed a mirror
kicked a habit like filth for you. have we died? is it lethal? are we making
passion?
a poem ended, a
catapult slung emotion, as wondering what you look like. we skip first person,
as abated to dirt, soil in his glass, shattered skies in this woman. gods know
her, gods ache with her, gods protect her—if she permits it.
make it work, a
game of fuckery, an appellation for trauma. another like titles, like jargon,
like angry.
leave me
staggering. never come again. unpictured by anniversary.
