the
singsong voice, derivative of souls—lost, moving through slums; oh for mercy,
dying at extremes, so excavated, so mobile, so green; a frenzy in seas, a monster
or angel, maybe a poltergeist. the gut phone, ringing aloud, so silent, no one
is listening; links in chains, thunder rescinding, internal harm, internal
family members. islands baptized, souls missing each other, lovers in another
life: watching closely, fainting lightly, enchanted with hands making luxuries.
those energies, sweet turmoil, a ghetto filled with volcanic ash. eyes
sprinkling sadness, or strength, so mighty—it aches with roses. days made
forbidden, a slip into a fount, pure pleasurous remorse. the madman poet, the
madder camerawoman, or a notion of innocence as demented. so much to believe,
much need for insurance, while love is economic—the theft of lives, a ghost
inside, many miracles for capture: cringing in voice, addicted in body, angst
as sexual anxiety.
