i can’t say, i’m dying, but math looks fragile—to want with cleaving, too close to sing, needing arm-room to adore you. i’m not one to lie, they need lies, most get lost in duplicity: hectic legs, finer flesh, scented in sincerity; like pioneers of justice, the fight for behaviors, the gash in sin. so much surrendering—to each verb, action in rights, reservoirs in activity; the beauty of the danger, the maverick into privacy, so much to tell a person, “I know!” the cult of the outsoaring—the dungeon of the bar, the fury of the happiness; so seduced in excellence, not an opera at the time, to move in silence, like it never occurred. glossy-eyed. mastering space. too close to ache that way. sweet nobility, stern contradiction, a person masters his inhalation.
so
indecent, trying to clear conscienceness, like a.m. twilight zones; sensing
depression, finding it condensed, challenged by memories of independence;
listening to his heart, hearing her smile, it seems so defeated; watching a
linchpin, seeing it smelted, looking for the purest ingredients. a soul
wondering about humility—the cage of forgetfulness—it plays out in spaces;
differing from male to female, dusty pans, dusty bins, dusty-dusky skies—more in
what i need, less in what i want, such costumes and dolor in a soul resistant
to imperfection—so sickening!
