no boundaries, bars smelted, gripped
in fantasy—somewhere real, conversing pain, a neat agony, porcupine pressure—eating
sharkskin, touching syrup, cupping wrists, palms locked, agonizing its deaths.
upon a dreadlock, up in
atmosphere, so sweet, a man is prediabetic—certain sugar teeth, absorbed in odors,
precious perfumes, a soul losing his balance.
earlobe nausea, rushing
into spirit, to feel alone, upon sudden voltage—those passionate cries, lying
in depth, so much courage to hate us.
mandarin compulsions,
tender rage, softer neurons; to envelope miseries, at a peak in climaxes, such
pure inrushing; some climate, seated at the bed, looking for one last lie.
the touch is a vacuum. so
threshed by tigersnake. thawing rapidly. melting in bed. we know what we feel.
too delicate to share. so deep it aches. so torn those wings.
pure unhappy bliss, an
oxymoron, can’t let go, can’t hang around, a man is a fool for the beloved.
spawn from demons—thralled by angels, a soul is its contradiction.
so bereft of the core, so
distant, so close, such need to break silence; as love would backfire, to die
in throws, the absence of a sentence.
