The life in a whisper the arrogance
in denying it the penalty for reporting it; thoughts on trial, confessions
relived, pain maximized.
Demon-eyed, great feelings, the
zombie of the chaos—at a pharmacy, a pocket of pills, just to function, salt is
pivotal.
I was losing a dinosaur, the profit
of highness, Love is a maniac, a monster, so sexy at the resistance; a man beat
inside, exhausted inside, sleeping through the matinée.
Into
Chronicles, sensing secrets, the bassline thumping—watching skies, seeing
sparrows, afraid to exhale—the crows on high, the matrix with a face, Love is bad
as ribbons.
So
shocked, as determined, into ails and displacement—back into my existence—the flippancy
of the spirits, alive, as a man dies—lit and moving longevity, negativity, she
hates the dearness of my guts. I wrote it, the gut song, it was lethal, on
contract, on God’s cascade, at something too damn human.
The lenses bleeding the art is tyrannical
the doctor is up all night—feuding, so split, at some sickness, a bit of
attraction, if the self was abandoned.
Damn!
We drift! More breadnut, more silent wine, and whining isn’t about to satisfy
the bounty.
