out
the pit—the pith—and palatial ghettoes;
the
half-bent reality, the smile shattered,
the
feeling of looking, unable to
fix
it; so moved by complication, too
sphinxlike
to garner trust, too stealth to seek
advice;
a style unique to self, a few
the
promise of the elixir, so great
to
have lied to each other. mathematics
in
aesthetics. serious beauty is
beholden.
water was first feared. a wheel
inside
of a wheel—a furnace inside
of a
kiln—a spigot inside of a
faucet;
racing to poolhalls, but a child
those
miracles, to know everything was
laid
to waste: microphonic gorgeous, so
much
hatred for self, too explosive to
be but
addicts. a feud in self, a loudness
in
countenance, of course, meant for decoding.
fie
upon us, the wrath upon us, debating
the
worth of a stranger. so close to another
mistake,
another problem, a part desires
to
open old texts—to swoosh at moments,
or
deeper, the planted thought, to hunt in
wilderness,
and valleys, to get into
those
crevices: how sickening! too dear
to
humanity—such the salacious poet,
or
too ascetic to quite breathe normally.
a
passerby—a brief encounter—a
forgotten
reality! the tiger
and
his head, the dragon and his body,
the
creature and his interior;
thereinto,
a night with errors, vengeance
accomplished,
where one has victory,
and
disputes, if to let live.
