the song is soothing, longing into courageous eyes,
athirst for a part of the beast. some creature dying from love, arranged in
passion, trying to giggle the rain away. some partial nightmare, filthy
excellence, made important as long as it begins—the fury of the islands, so
curt inside, conversing with mud and mirror. i was aloof to souls, founded by
souls, estranged from mountains and scrolls. if a man dies, he mustn’t be
forgotten, but it happens so often; such begging to be right, to feel correct,
that feeling often against my grasp. it’s existential; groups trying to put a
name to it; it’s the human condition—while nothing ever feels normal for a
time. maybe an inglenook, aside a rocket, some dream for the best in science; or
left discordant, chasing creative coding, hard-wired for high emotion: so
spoiled, such toe jamb, dreams becoming rustic scenery.
