it was morning time. i just met
her. beauty became the fire. would never receive her, nor enter sexually, must
tell the horizon—of Christ, needing to mimic his life, at pains in his mother;
Love ached in silence, purchased souls, tore through rivals. maybe with snails
in us, drones about the brains, and
grandmother is in the kitchen—so
demented, cooking a steak, sautéed trimmings, missing the big picture; this
fight to love, as if it came easily, topaz diamonds inside. and Love knew me,
had met me, knew about the potentiality.
the fear of the banshee, as it
peeks, peaks, and laughs at the good times. the world spinning, upon its axis,
along the spectrum—her eyes, as souls, permeating, trained, sunk into soil,
sicked on the up and coming.
it was hard days, minerals in a
line, a pack of nicotine—those knowing seem cautious, those eager seem excited,
those unknowing desire to non-exist. it was just my turn. she knew.
quite tired of asserting
perspective—as on beauty: we need to feel each emotion.
back to London, the centerpiece of
arts, the jasper loving, the jasmine rose, those saffron eye-contacts. needing
more from this journey, taking a break from myself, running back to the gates
of my soul.
we come into contact, we snarl and
grimace, often to feel attraction; we plant snares, get angered with
trepidation, flustered with consciousness, insulted by restraints. thinking
more, life is temporary, in knowing her, i will soon take
departure. so young in my thinking.
should hold for dear life. it seemed easy to vanish into blue skies. the
ventriloquist in reigns; those deep amethyst woes; or brown with curiosity,
putting life to crucible, hanging up upon the crucifixion.
