like a dream,
super feminine, to deserve my karma. this is what we want, to fall into
deserts, alone with one who sees us, adores us, sips with us, laughs, dies,
speaks tongues in us. hurting became legal. living became illegal. blackness
became a felony. I petition self, I hold a guitar, I played with ashes. ate
bone. regurgitated marrow. look at us like I knew more. losing many pegs, bathing
in a sink, thinking nothing more but affecting us.
it kills to
cherish in wilderness a wild cat. looking for will in my purpose.
setting exit signs to flame. such perfectly miserable matches. as set aflame,
wrestling all night, pulling, yanking, damn a safe word! to bull a move, to
disappear, to ask for long life. a blind soul in a blind man, while rebuilding
you become anguish. what have they for us? what needs are important—when it
seems a fleeting thing, confused with brevity, while we fall so deeply into
physicality.
another was public
gorgeous, our time in fever, our arcs ravished, giggling, couldn’t drink
enough.
I never mentioned
it was hybrid.
most wounds are
seams leaking into an inner vat—the fury of the rage the slam of the insides to
release a mini avalanche.
oceanfront eyes.
soft, tender limbs. peppermint breath. to have needs for something so
incomplete—the way we hate ourselves, the sabotage, the social suicide.
I was with some
notion. it sounds incompetent. I have lost an absolute feeling. so much to lead
with fire, another to depend on convention, with little excellence to
maintaining the helm. a job more viable than life, more deliberate than
addiction, most consuming like parenting.
knit into our
chorus, raving over our liturgy, so casual like under anesthesia. the fire we’d
gather, the camp we’d crucify, the crucible we detailed. like mistyrose
fancies, or jamesia agonies, running so fast a soul evolves. like mind chess,
in a serious sphere, or writing so fiercely the knells rang. a wrung man, a
sung song, in its horizon.
