in
the melody of trauma, moving with grapes, refused by normality—possessed by
obsession, regressing inside, holding a countenance in turmoil. the wave of the
soul, a hello in pain, laughing at nonsense.
we
left the wake acting like apes refurbished in the liquor. put in an ambulance,
wounded in tears, facing the inner mansion. in love with pavement, needing
concrete, infatuated with abstracts. those eyes screaming at me.
by
a clock in essence, a teapot façade, used to wake up feeling wicked—needing understanding,
waxing in troubles, through bars, through rooms, it wasn’t easy in boxes. many
would capitalize, I’m just needing rain, where life continues, wrestling
screams, eating demons, a pomegranate becomes wines or as monsters. mother with
father, street doctrine, nothing would be closer than the death it became.
grassy
glass, gassy angst, albums blowing wide open; terrified souls, still moving in
traffic, antsy, edgy, alert, drugged out.
many
unbolt. many chunked-out. many more holding until bitter death. black men
trying harder, living freer, like illegal is sanctified. padlock dying. stolen
minerals. loving one too naïve to understand her consequences—
walking
faster. they say something evil: “A knife is closer.”
a
margin mulatto, a major problem, blessed in patience, can’t reveal the realness
of the beast.
