i get angry at
self, trying to make a trillion—in spirit, like riches in skies; the façade broke
music, the feeling grew, Love is so sick. like a couple, in souls, a phantom
sipping gin and brandy. an artist, fixated, an apparition, to hit the dreamland.
assorted in diamonds, the cave is bleeding, the enigma is important. she
hypnotized the arc, so exquisite, so illustrious, so reincarnated—the fury of
the landscape, so cursed, God, at the condo bleeping out loud. i get angry at
self, fired-up, laughing like a damn maniac—those years passed, the blue skies
bleed, the blood drips into the wound. they can stay disgruntle. the full
pledged reality—becomes the google reality—to make or break a man giggling with
something offended—a game we play, freedom like a myth, to imagine doing what
comes naturally—never in a maze, weeping in the grove, everyone trying to
escape. at a new invention, at a new pearl, like disgusted at the filth; needing
newness, seeping into history, take the dirt, Lord! paid off debt, in spirit,
like a sad man—the network so limited, the ghosts inside, i keep hearing
susurrous descriptions; in pain, like a soul—to break at this line: Love is a whit
more advanced. to close a box, nails
and wood, if meant more, i’m dearly apologetic. i was graves and slaves, at art
and charts, eating bags of indifference.
