broken torture, been
holding back, can’t seize the interior. we miss him, we bleed him, several
drinks a year. black market poetry, autonomy on sale, the mind popping into a
deeper dread; like an orphan, hungry as heaven, trying to save souls—what shall
become of the spirit? since the millennia another space so into his woman—I walked
away. not as a good man, not as a sacrificed man, more as a man respecting some
silent code of ethics; upon a poodle, so young, a man dies to hear his
daughter; too terrific, to know what leans to life, to ignore it in the seed;
the drink walking, the liquor talking, trying to bail out a lieutenant; (he was
dead, bleeding out, he woke up, Jesus kissed him). the young endeavor, the beautiful
nightmare, at her with sole enterprise, so many sexual levels—a damn fool, at a
problem, facing my mortality! the music was sacrificed, we went so deep, the
profundity of the bodies in hell; commercial poems, ghetto poems, aesthetic
poems; never played piano until I paved violin, the last MF to die. you must
know my government, real with those down to live, those down and out—to die;
many verses, been at it too long, like desperate to prove some metaphysical
point; the MFA prophetess was alarmed, it passed, the business hit the region; so
shaky, so diminished in screams, those poetess vibes; a rope at his throat, a
noose at his morals, Love is a bad ass millionaire; to see her drowning, it
frets my guts, I’m swerving through the gutter socialites.
