the love of the art, of worth more
than skies, as much as revival. a filthy ache, a fevered romance, feeling cherries
aside warm conversation. a bowl of confidence—temperance insides, angry as alligators,
fierce as crocodiles.
an isolated observer those dying in
increments, wholeness first conquered, then challenged, an offbeat excellence.
Love has third senses, into sixth senses, windy rooms, omen beginnings, painted
to have survived.
like a sweater rubs against flesh—like
a tire hugs concrete—close to deaths, romancing the illness, like feeling something
indicative of Christ. arriving early, soaring consciousness, just exited a
major quest/test.
more flustered—assigned to skies—falling,
failing, fumbling—winning weathers, withered aside a jaguar; a panther
instinct, mustard and links, gin and scotch, like buffed into an image.
so much pulled out, much more to
see, most are a bit dangerous, the noose is sociality—those rules, the dictums,
a fiat into a chimney—puffing sanity, popping closure, drinking a social scene—
the father of disaster, the guilt
in bones, a flippant flipper—to want us, to need something, unable to give it,
screaming like a madman—rolling faster, so cursed lately, so attracted those
minutes, like hell to find a decent understanding.
I was in a dungeon, next to a
cliff, Love seemed like a savior.
been writing in carnality, a sheer
slant, a deeper difference. like a samurai indifferent, or a slumlord laughing,
at a puppy trained to mutilate; eating a centaur, becoming a minotaur, I roar
half human, half beast.
unlock that space, live like
needing life, amazed how she was needed—those eyelashes, those little hands,
those typing fevers; a snowbird aside a sunbird, both reciting prose—the poetry
she lives, a gut I endure, washed in forgiveness.
