to carve drumbeats, to feel voltage, to have one
surprise—the soul dies, I flip like flipper, I grind in the storm, it hurts
like losing.
upon an evening song, some voluptuous woman, society praises
shapes, images, if it looks like lusts.
trying to become candid, if it lives inside, it will
come to its surface. so pleased to have a mirage, so sick for a vision,
traveling into sunsets.
I stir a cauldron, chant a sentence, hymns inside to
exist.
it was a nightsong, roaring inside, I was snatching
liquor, rejoicing without reason, no one to lie to. laying on carpet, flicking
a flea, so much to hurt her heart; a fantast material, so immeasurable, gazing
at blue shivers—the chill of an empire, those foreign eyes, too dear to exist.
if to unveil a woman, to pierce the veneer, hold like
winning—despite the tragedies.
most excellent soul, helping to see, where true wisdom
comes with discernment—to vigil, sense pain, most excellent dynamite—the pressure
of unknowingness, is the pressure of knowingness, the sun shines with equality.
like social straitjackets, inclined to ignore you,
like one babbling too much; so sour, a pleasure to ignore you, a deeper agitation,
while many are unequally yoked. I imagine another keeps his hands out, never
praises you, nothing is enough; some gigolo, some excellent human, dear God—I can’t
challenge a need for rolling in desperation.
rife with passion, running like Bonnie & Clyde,
bullets skipping beats, the pain is so addictive; our days, filled with so
much, believing in life, made like animals; aside acacia, or palming a myrtle
tree, or listening to a vandal complaining. let the guts scream, just lost a
friend, he was without a compass: pants sagging, his flag hanging, his
dismissal of facts. so long into harmonicas, feeling so listless, while each
person’s solitude is in jeopardy.
a tear sour about what feels good. I whittle in private—knowing
privacy is myth. too much to unsay. a person condemned by his philosophy—trying
hard not to succumb to his major complaints. to pontificate, so high on a ladder,
praising Divinity, caught at the other fence—a product of the opposition.
