there’s a
firebrick covered in coal the soul is the brick. days become evenings, evenings
become night-silence, night-silence becomes embodiment. wicks are flaming, the
remedy of disguise, sensories are in veils. the flicker of those tides, candy
caramel cotton, much is left to the senses. a soul will die trying to outwit
emotion, some cagey assessment. so unclear, nay, dissembled, for fear of what
lurks underground: boneless spirit, invisible touching, inaudible fingerprints,
tasty fragrances. the fence craves moveability, amore is bashful, for many,
inarticulate shyness. unpaved, redirected, we just keep to hostilities. mobile
thorns, thickets, city desert weeds. more sound. more envy. more cries unheard.
to one determined to point out inconsistencies, life will be desolate.
bowls filled with
table grapes, wines from three decades ago, cellars feeling like freezers;
waves into loudness refusing to un-exist, it was uneven at times.
dear Architect …
when the valley is fruitless, desiring population, two will come. dear Phantasm
… most are sleeping, on one fact, nothing is unsanctified. so candent made
lambent aside inside outer brains. living out a stranger’s rage, worshiping
something—it didn’t work, how has it been consecrated? doleful calligraphy,
maestro masquerades, immoveable catacombs. aligned to misuse, until screaming
outburst, utilizing what it feels like to be used.
a man wept, divinity
wept, many are solid and weeping.
