I
asked for clarity. I was suicidal. we grabbed graves, plead villages, basement
tightening. grip me, scratch me, bite my dreams—fleeing, looking back, can’t
escape the stream. I’ve no guarantees, I adore eternal, love is at moments—so true,
such pain, flicking a flea. I took a garden, I begged films, diamonds in my
damn face—swinging, playing, too exposed—the force of violence, grabbing at
myself, slipping into atmosphere. I lost so much. I gained crookedness. the
lines inside, the paper crumbling, the shrill in her lungs. so dirty, I feel
filthy, like old grimy rags—so biblic—a curse, a new name, where in sex—would
it become kosher? be a witness, at the watch tower, Love in the countryside.
money spent, days at inner murder, clouds at ants. a flood inside, never needed
a person, so adapted to screaming; fuck life, if life is absent—of us, ties with
England, so proper, I touched, got ghosted, she popped up—told all, a baggage
of trash, bins full, giggling like a damn child. mimic me and die. redeem me
and fires. resurrect me and become powerful. never touched that pain, never so
eager, I fumble, an outburst, such filth was clean—the shirt bloody, the rain
in my circle, an epithet, to evolve into murder grains. so fucking petty, bucking
in lanes, like, I’m closer to her art—different humbleness, different humility,
I shake to know our potentiality—a koan, a mistake, my life, never would it be
better.
