we mix medias, to express passion,
the sweetest taboo.
so good for me, so bad for me, I can’t
express the distress.
so quiet the storm, so enraged the
agony, so close it hurts to say, “Love.” a soul to his cabin, a woman to her
experiences, like pain early morning. so ashamed of love, so enthralled by
love, so many currents in love; to have died in webs,
to have become a cocoon, so many
bugs crawling over our coffins. if tender taboo, if revelation, so far into
you.
the war for privacy, those berries
for wine, somewhere in the summer; telling you how I marvel, how I fret, the
inside suction. so desperate for passion, only with Passion, too holy to have
writhed in agony.
a fretting man, a lonely woman, two
make sweet guitar.
there’s death at the corner, we know,
we run to death.
such a miracle—to have lived, a
cage in a dream, sugary methamphetamines upon a vision—never reality, or maybe
a secret, so much acid in high school.
a friend of the appellations, the
misnomers, trying to discover life without looking into science; a fever in us,
a field inside, fraught by
vegetables and fruits.
