the havoc in the bone, the marrow
of the skies, at centipede clouds, so far from the underground.
as men calculating treasure,
incurring more wealth, shocked to have adored unbeknownst to logic.
erotic hats, a masterpiece in time,
an heirloom in mother, a sacrifice in essence—the fallen ambition!
distorted images—the pain of the
mirror, fretting ugliness—for no good reason. the giants die!
to specialize in self-hatred, to
love in weathering reigns, so cursed to have adored the mistake.
carrying the vessel, souls at
cries, hearts multiplying eyes. moving through the Bay Area, laughing in good
humor, assassinated inside—the way it churns, the many deaths, trying hard not
to feel ugly.
three realities, souls shaken, so
much intimate indifference; too attracted to a flying scroll, so much depth
cringing, or making love, in making into a mistake.
if to notice a blatant reality, a
soul taking sex between two married, the practices to oblige, the pain in the
salt, the miracle in the sand, but it hurt her.
so much cache in us. so great the
illness in me. the time we measure together, is the lust for that in a tranced
person. dens and lions. cheetahs and souls. so ecstatic—as only holy souls
might induce.
the hearts of the souls, such
rising, as discussed—the film recording, the rooms made silent, the frequency
through homes, the favor we bestow upon the dying.
upon infant wings, initial at
birth, come full circle, the body feeling uneasy. the grease in the silence,
the filth in the innocence, the penalty in the exonerated.
maybe a kickstart company. maybe a
kickstart writer. maybe the tides have reached the inner person, the outer
soul.
the sail was cast. big bodied
beautiful. never thought about how men lose women: the vultures, the plots, the
unbelievable position—this could happen to anyone.
the furious woman, the kleptomaniac
man, the silence in the security found false. if Love adores, Love only
promises to become a great friend. this will be attacked.
where to, or wherefrom, the taller
tales of the taller agendas, walking away, it feels natural.
the complaisant philanderer, one
might hurt dearly, so addicted to a person made in nonchalance.
