Keep it shunning, the distorted moon, designed to die,
most ultimately.
They ask questions, what means by life, the jungle in
veins, the meadows in nostrils?
Like a damn carnival, like real hatred, like living a
penalty in color.
I could adore her, if it was written, instead, we
despise life;
An average gut, never it would be, the highest on the
food chain.
I look at you. I don’t feel moved. Something, the
fuse, is dead in me.
I become surprised, to drop a tear, a bleeping vulture
next to an African child—it starts to feel offensive.
Our community trying harder, Ukraine and Russian women
going through nightmares – I spent all day trying to wake up.
I have private problems. I have nautic seas. A man
jumped raw over my vocabulary. I keep swimming.
I feel it so deeply—I can’t explode, like Love would
deliver for a season.
Life is affectionate to the receptive, caricature to
the senses, a hundred miles a second!
Thinking of her—most aren’t loving her, like hell to
wake up to her!
I damn near hate ignorance. I try to be a sage. It destroys
the good intentions.
