the all-seeing cosmos, the blood I bled, just to have
an idea—to vocalize independence.
more a silent, observant type—backstage, near an
attic, aside individualism—an unfair war, left behind, it might be mutual. a
dying man, a flying man, an idyllic movie.
beside a set of beads, igniting the insides, flame on
occasion, effusion from others, grandiose at times, more rain to vanish; an
unsung dynasty, I must achieve more, it was ecstasy, devoid of penalties, such
fever made fervent in feral glens.
many might measure, some corpse nearby, while a sage
spoke to spirits—the fields filled with fantasies, her softer aches, so
attached, missing in music.
headed to Venice, tamed in vibrations, so great a
woman—most dislike her. I was shocked. the swamp has covered the meadows. so
gentle the aggression, so sweet, the vinegar, two will never approve of union.
the vernal valley, under siege, to sudden into
independence; somewhat intrigued, it was methodical, tender esoteria, so
scientific—no one claims, what they know.
I never unsay much, but two things were unsaid, while
war was undressing, giggling, filled with wretchedness, wrenching sewers, dear
agonies!
to watch deliberate images, facades laughing, where
revenge is precious—the fighting islands, the dead existence, the life as obtuse—it
felt like insistence.
cooking nothing tonight, just pining, it feels better—stuffing
my face, it can’t be pleasure, seated at an ottoman, sipping redness, craving
some miracle—to imagine, I felt in you, the solution to all my pain.
