the
phantom is blasted, rethinking mother, a fool hates his origins—the fire, Father,
the greenness, so innocent, so turned for worse. much berry chasing, many
cherries in graves, granny was here last night. to feather a man as lost, to
write off pain, with guts, with flame, like a damn bullet. it will never end,
put life on ink, late into another century—reading it, the prophecy, the
baptism, my daughter’s great grandson; into a granduncle, into more vandalism,
like hitting a peak into sunrise.
memories
blur, time blurs, I have an issue; seated in concrete, living like wounds, a
battle to maintain clarity; the vulture waiting, I can’t collapse, the mourning
seeming imperfect—as lifted higher, another swig, a person, a human, happening
as a woman. so great in respect, bones in terror, the midnight séance; like
torture to adore a phantom, like life to be diagnosed, rummaging dungeons,
listening closely, war seems to live inside.
more
leaves, less cotton, walking into fury. I adored in time, something we’re
losing, so analytical, so hypothetical, headed to choir practice. the crane of
the wealth the soul of the mountain. recalibrated, isolated, interrogated. a
graph on me, a polygraph to prove love, a problem to see visions. close enough
to shed a tear, further removed into the sunset, agitated, complaining, looking
confused.
raw
realness, a section sliced, a gift for in-humility. innocuous it seems,
intimate it whispers, something neater keeps its compass. refused something,
usually discreet, a few issues in praise—the cage of the insect, the glass in
cities, the session went fair—if living, if rising, if roses in a pond; pure
love, feral love, just—I need certain love.
