I
have combats with self—golden dens, palatial scars; to need keeping ink, a
keepsake, a panacea. most aren’t aware—of goblins, gargoyles, ghosts.
I
saw a locket, on a raft, dogwood, or softer. I gazed at a majestic river.
catfish were having a time.
life
is bitter. life is sweet. is this a fiat?
I
have loved instability—fuchsia vines, vicious acts, forgiving, fraught inside,
making indecision—as a crafted sculpture, as unidentified, as one longing,
where condemnation is over longing.
what
we never say: a face like classics, hair like silk, eyes protruding, lips,
casual seduction, a neck into Netherlands, Australian breasts, a sunk in
stomach, hips winged, buttocks tempered, thighs muscular, legs into ankles,
adorned by pedicured feet.
quick-witted.
sanctuary womb. free loving. never for capture. obsessed with a few.
elegance.
a beer in palm. a scent unbeknownst to most. jeweled. delicately. laughing with
freedom. arms toned, shoulders rich, ribs pushing through flesh. some type of
excellence, some type of disbelieve, wrists too small for cuffs.
polished,
buffed fingertips; a delicate artistry, an aesthetic chin; so avant-garde, too much
pizzazz, so cruel—simmering, careless. most want to possess life!
