the kettle is
whistling, kids are running about, anguish is heavy in those airs. I pass from
mellow to moody to irritated; the art of its feeling, these aches in pangs,
those hours debating innocence.
I will never fix
the tepee. I’ve been sacrilege, or undetermined, or nightmarish.
when coming out of
the margins, it’s hard to believe in people, or a need for something, in its
sincerity, in its utter deepness, is most required to swim.
the message is
clear: it’s difficult to be on time, each minute, with little adherence to
reflecting on tone, shifts, aches and groans.
the winds most
wretched—torrid into agonies, a grunt on a line inside an ink cartridge.
opposites hold
language. objectivity is hard to attain to. order seems blasé.
the result is
complicated—trying to love against orientation—with hatred of self, breaking
composure.
it’s hard to go
into regions—the rise of the risk, the cage of the command; so tender it seems,
so oriented, it whistles, so couth, it becomes infatuation; still wild,
clashing with rules, offensive in many areas.
so awesome in
foreign pride, so opposite as to all I recognize, sweet signature
unrelatability.
