by the garden
becomes our brains our experience our tools our chalkboards;
insomuch as to
exist, terror flights, so consumed by a smile; to venture into a scream,
without time accursed, cut, leaking intelligence—an unfair trial, some soul too
smart for skilled; a cup of ashes.
I would soon collapse the tender bash into something
correlated; to hear her, so skewed, nothing has shaken her; so torn, Love, to
adore, Love, sensories become the garden; to sense undercuts, seeing a need for
clarity, others feel cloudy; chasing pain, needing fidelity, power so honest,
it bleeds the garden; crazed software those methods meaning so much, close to
home, she vibes; pudding eyes, feral flame, an anxious garden; one would love
poesy, critique poesy, driven to unvet the garden.
I saw my kindred, my
equal, at something clever—internal government, all peoples, listening, becoming
problematic; ill-repose, while one is happy, others are drilled into pure
resistance; rescue moments, accursed, muddy, dangers are screaming; by the shiver-map,
by the green redness, made beige, cursed to resemble deserts; eyelash garden, battling,
asked repeatedly for clarity, freedom.
we ate licorice at
a piano, I heard a longing violin; it’s a feudal person, its dear soul, Love
agonized in sequences;
core calligraphy
into bolder brilliance at assonance or association; rhinestones, paralyses, living
life in parentheses—to
have her soul, to
admonish mirrors, as uncouth creatures; jazz, blues, captured, cornered, with
dream paint, celestials; white roses, perky brows,
it was craving, it
was disaster.
—a mere raincoat, simple pants, an unassuming posture,
a stance, a rainbow; by the garden, to catch a glimpse, reserved enough to lose
senses; tacks wailing, carpet uncertainty, bars we entertain; pensive scars, by
the wooden rooftop, a poet is knocking; to kick like Jesus, to plead, to
oversee underestimation; a fair place, an unsafe aura, many are playing by the
Passion—
