heart noise. I can’t ignore it.
albeit, I grow by scrutiny.
the sun isn’t up. the moon is out.
both are in cadence, rhythm, the abuse of observation.
by a mere glance, I can feel veins,
body, taste, and deaths; the psychopath without the psychopath.
years proving some point, gravity
getting heavy, the gravel of the illusiveness; allegory or fable, at a cliché,
toppling into a universal, the pain of making passion.
I imagine a feeling, so neat and
grand, I regret thinking about mirrors.
from what place during hours at
war—those frames, knowing we know, without mirrored explanation?
I ran to a podium. I began to speak
to an audience. there was only one group in attendance. the more I
retreated—the greater the advance; the argument wasn’t about truth, as much as
insecurity, and old wounds.
they were wise, naïve, anxious for
battle, inclined to go without rest.
the group suffers from omission.
they seem utopic, scientific, cultic, and universal. they seem human, pushing
machinery, eager to get something to pour out.
on another balcony, a person is wide
awake, and understanding the dilemma, the plight, the war; as bellicose souls,
suffering from pains, quite unforgiving in our notions.
I can’t qualm over science, nor
cultic rites, nor the fact in essence of what grieves.
it was imagery. afraid of imagery.
self-perception determined—he sees me; not in texture, as seeing self, but in
remnants, fighting for clearance.
such devastation. such unison. been
in and out of clarity for some days now; as seeing my part, and seeing the
group’s part, and trying to sit in stillness, and then, the interruption.
another. he reads. he has his
hunch. he’s hands off.
another, she has her notion. she’s
hands in, to a certain degree—just a nudge, no more, no less.
there were oldies and jazz. there
were glasses, filled, wallowing in miseries, with beauty resurrecting.
the sphinx was eager, waiting,
needing someone to cross her path. it gives life. it heals to have someone to
abhor. such awkward language. the psychology of the matter gives life. to feel
some element, as opposed to being neutral, with one worthy, and deserving of
contempt.
hell is gentle, compared to a
spirit hurting.
the blues were trickling. the body
was unaware of itself. souls were answering for the pain they’ve caused.
on another note. I wonder if she
feels like essence, as giving me life, so long ago the follies. I was driven
into excellence, after many a faux pas, but she sees, I imagine she sees, with
nothing much to give, nothing interested in receiving. she just sees—neither
left, nor right, up nor down—she just sees. in this manner, or that concern, to
usher in good energy, and disappear from it entirely. to come again, full
throttle, the wheelieing motorcycle—planted for some reason, making some
message, too aloof to speak it in his ears.
I shall be indebted, like some
miracle, to one affronted by my presence. I shall be attracted, if falling
gracefully, to such women, otherworldly; to turn, where one watches, asking, if
I can do those things, why haven’t he loved me? surefire pain, it becomes the
answer, one needs addiction to her, in honor of, aha!
thus, bodily confusion, to need by
slime, the approval of irrelevance, to sustain a perceptual balance, to return
from the slumbering caves, to awaken bears prematurely.
and there it appears: granny’s
spectacle … her claims … as most chided. yes. the phenomenon is fragile.
ghosts, as we say, for no better reason, are in motion, connected to
consciousness, one concentrating, feeling electrified, so much given to people,
by people, one loathes by disgusts.
I haven’t made my point: in hating
a person, one needs that person, to become, as it were, animals disgracing each
other. the arsenal is heavy, the weaponry in auction, it shall never come to
fruition, it shall never pass, with fires burning beneath the explanation, pure
interruption, looking at one’s spouse—afraid, it might be better than what I
possess. yes. in the one I hate—it might be my eternity.
it comes to a place, in excellence,
where, elsewhere, I could be eternal, myself, decorating both haven and grave.
in wanting leniency, I desire
flesh, like a fool in his harvesting. in wanting flesh, I despise more, for
it’s inevitable to suffer. in another, it would be blissful, the heart noise,
while addiction would be for the former passion; to have in part, to share at
disgrace, most wonder—how it’s managed?
another is resurrection. we share
to possess. we have anguish, pain, rage, and satisfaction. by the rivers in
clouds, the falling or expansion, to drift in cosmos. in adoring the person,
the need becomes the torture, the fraction becomes the elation. dragged to us,
performing for us, with the reality—it's never satisfactory enough.
