such filthy pain—what
is the secret—if to let misery rest? cultures are screaming, eating social
medicine, to see one absent is like a phantom. so bold at it, many drinks at it,
like buck anything at adversity. more firepower, I feel nervous, busting, cussing,
fussing, like tomorrow keeps laughing. no one just loving us, it needs us, like
know your damn worth! a cut ego, is a priding ego, like why does it matter? I’m
itching for inching listening to pensive tales, the fury of the monster, so
decent, like the beast has been domesticated.
adoring her. or worshiping
her. is she responsible to handle praise?
much competition.
wild like lemurs. while a monkey would kill you. counting veins on a leaf like
a flute in hell—the pain feels good. buck what they say, at love for anguish, I
had to invert it—unless die, so a soldier is normal, a normal person is
abstract—can you fathom?
always slipping,
like never slipping, like living my damn life!
Love is kenisic
(gestures). father was a pimp. many are enraged. it runs dry, the creek is wheezing,
the algae/fungi are decorating pain—such filthy fame, like dead and living,
like lethargic or catatonic—like it happened, he bounced back, same person the
life of the family.
the cuisine is
miracle or mercy or filthy miseries, eating sharkskin, preparing for a mutiny. a
barrow to my life, a truck—doors open, I was anti-emotion, as they looked, to
feel, a richness to him. order means nothing, structure is bullshit, blackness
is making moves. chaos is existence, like bucking living, like a hundred grand
might keep her attention.
modest Munchie, or
legendary Gotti, or Vegas Bugsy—the art of criminology—the fields of mimics—with
film footage understating the mental strategies.
so much
contradiction, needing structure, like anti-structure, while nothing you hear
is absolute. an old ponytail, an expensive pain, as tiptoeing a landmine—the pantomime
shame, lost in trenches, eating anything to survive.
hanging at Jack In
The Box, swerving for a hundred grand, laughing over purple cushion. a dear
mother on sheet metal, a body found in a viaduct, the boy was fourteen. so
dangerous so behaved such a bucking slave—running plantations, old grounds, so
many spirits—the dead must come back, the spirits are gunning for ghosts are
bleeding Silvia. a war in me, in a daze with me, a downpour of my borderline.
