the cultural
elements, the needs for vultures, too exposed to ever become normal: drugs and
liquor, cards and dice, backgammon and poolhalls; the fire in the component,
the sexual energies, tensions we meet with, convulsions we undergo; firebrand
flaming, underbrush osmosis, the silence becomes the love—as to move aside, and
let an ingredient permeate the destruction; more precise, she has skills, she
sees potential danger, she could intervene, she would let nature take its
casualties.
to hear her echo, her
voice, in the melody, i think of marriage. so sliced in genetics, no one can
deal with me, i ask—straightforwardly, i push boundaries, i deliver pain—in ecstasy,
and can’t keep from exploding. the storm is beautiful, the love is seasick, the
tides are raging against the ship. eyes watering, feeling others, so intense—the
gorgeous maniac. i sense a naked leviathan, a major snake, loving me as best
she could; so political, so in demand, so much a portrait in the skies; like a
seabird, a birdsong, as to watch us, to feel something done before, never so
rich and challenging, so deceitful and fulfilling.
the artist is
emotion, eyes dripping rain, the identity of the tendency, to see this religiously.
i know it’s been slums, sometimes art, other times drugs and champaign—extensions
on claiming humanity.
so delightful, so
tense, or sudden into a burst of energy; to want it forever, in that one
moment, if to hold forever in the palm of a sentence.
the bed is fraught
with you, the scent of invisibility, the lavender you never spent.
you can’t find the
nature, so moist, so encharge as someone inflating your loins. i try not to
move.
