Tuesday, September 14, 2021

Puffing With A Banshee

 

fire tastes like perfume, each night the phantom might grow wings.

 

paradise might be you; the nausea might be you; something old might be in you: breakage in wells, sandstone problems, staring at Aquilla. tallgrass at sawgrass, pain or parade, like fevers seem distinct. I know you by experience. I hear you by silence, I must disappear

—I came with reason.

 

such fatigue. eyes burgundy that day—energy louder. bodies telling discomposure. homes tacit as tigerstone. theology whispering, some cage for many, some deliverance for others. untoward toward me. “He’s an asshole.” please, let time catch up!

 

sublime fray. sublime terrors. sublime innocence.

 

numen ink, like numen women, a person is uneasy about too much. pick an existential. leave the rest. perfect an understanding. times are trees, roots, barks, humans.

 

the final fable in might fair well.

 

over a cigarette. over wood smoked ribs. over a fib.

regaining consciousness/conscienceness, asking

questions, listening to hives. a twinkle in twine, a dent in determinism, a key in a chatting piano. the last dahlia, the fallen nemesia,

at an impasse—laughing nervously, looking intently, this is studies.

 

epistemic his cries, so loud, dying is legal

—the rain at departure eating clear water, rushed to waken in screams. glass

shattered, penalties exonerated, a soul does similar shit.

petting an alligator,

dinning with a crocodile, like crazy to puff with

a banshee. so

long in waiting, so chill on iron, like disgusted with this shit.

the

doctor aches, the professor is wisdom, the ghost

has instruments.  

PS.

    The strength to withstand the winds; a spell as it effects/affects some creature. A sudden moment filled with absolute certainty, so wro...