at spontaneity—those
fingers, so distant, like time, witnesses, fleeing into an Oldsmobile.
illusions feel
good, mixed with people, so tough to let go.
I was smitten from
sunlight. so decent in a glance. I wonder if Love is inordinate—bent a certain
slant.
sensuality covers
problems, a man keeps it ahead of himself, her ankles, her calves, her uterus valley.
many are skilled,
pure seduction, enchantress scars; whispers at earshot, craving like vampires,
thirsty for filth, abandoned to lusts.
I was smitten,
from first honors, screaming inside.
I often feel this
sensation, I never think about eternity, thinking about eternity.
some
contradiction, some type of sorrow, to wrest self of demons—the plight of those
in power, the celebrity I need, such want, absent of riches; poetry cards,
prose clippings, aside one with fervor, burning into concrete.
so mean hearted,
so kind, too sensuous to die.
some are routine,
how in life, some are aching pains!
upon carpet, a
circuit, to walk different grays; if to knew what I know, if to be as one, like
eternity is bliss.
I see symbols,
scars, bars, openness; I see signs, frisbees, little poodles; I see cotton,
tobacco, hibiscus—many seeds, caesareans, intense levels for highness.
