the
wrangle of nightmares, so silent lately, I’ve grown into a monster.
much
beauty in composing, as we know, feelings come to pass, firmer feelings, linger
longer.
so
unspoken on it, it says a whit to conscienceness, sailing great riffs, greater
rain, so sick about love.
eating
silkworms, becoming fabric, sold to highest indifference.
I
rethink behaviors. I crunch emotion. I quell some room filled with sickness—a damn
carnival, we call it existence, so damn faceless, or voiceless, or pictureless,
or all the above.
I
could move deserts, baptize a cactus, or romanticize a camel; so alive, so
taciturn, so lonely when my feature appears; so delicate, so satisfied, so much
more city damages.
eating
goblin sanity, gargoyles come to life, a cedar tree bending into a kelpie.
silver
morality, golden ethics, the woman is fucking bad.
no
intent on my part, I just wish she were mine, so apologetic to her husband.
the
stature of the Aphrodite …
