most is staged,
like passion in its adversary, like so distant we need each other—certain to
croak, at a given moment, with children can’t feel the loss. into a machine, a
person, I see him in my mirror. at a myrtle tree aside a cypress bee, into a
haven no one may enter. so distant so alone, it becomes ghosts—a creeping mind,
a wild synaptic gap, a crazier phantom box. to adore hearing you, but removed
from loving you, a soul mustn’t cross territories. I know mistakes, like crazed
in a cave, a mind-fire raging through a city. too beautiful to die, dying,
nonetheless, if one second to gaze so steeply it mates with spirit. to admire a
power force, to burn the barn, to rebuild a farmhouse—right in her eyes right
in her soul with hell chasing our fragments. a cup of passion, a vat of
forgiveness, we come to a space every few months. as seated with a person,
trying to conceal a person, with a person becoming invasive. to see what he
missed, to ask for major clearance, with nothing remaining on its table. like a
damn banshee, in a damn coma, to awaken like love.
hit an attic a
flame in an apparition, like purgatory on wheels.
forced to submit.
captured by gods. eating reality, a goddesses’ palms. in absence of a cure,
having to eat my face, in spaces I can’t unveil. so unphysically physical, so
much immaterial material, like crazy to say an orange is a lemon. I met like crazed. I was fresh from
a box. I knew I saw a mystic. life isn’t gentle for us, it’s possessed with
crows laughing, with wolves in a dormant state. too much to evolve too much to
stand still too much to claim ultimate comfort. like thunder shooting into
hearths a heart beating it’s hilarious.
