The tragedy
won, the mathematics, the casualties—Love so damn incredible—as it stays in
Vegas. The salt I ate, the sweat I tasted, the soul bent and wrung. The corset
the pain, the nails into flesh. A man tries with his life, the city is filled with
empathy, the hound is on his leash. So sick. So selfish. If to own a part of
what’s free. So damn crazy—speaking to humans, like a damn slave trade. I talk
Versace. I lost a bet. The anti was the souls. Talking to the dead. Seething in
spirit. I can’t control the wild ass mare. Filled with problems, full of pains,
so much pleasure the hells are insignificant. Never touched like fuck emotion,
like filthy in a second—rolling sheets, dying down aches, so suffocated by the
soul-woman. So devastated, such frauds, the fierce way we attack invisibility—fluids
bearing witness, like consequence is partial—like never us, like losing a hell’s
bounty. I keep a name so close, the toast of the times, hypnotized, so catty,
such a battle, teeth full on porcelain. I come to conquer, like a priest
without a beginning, like a bishop without an omega. Much infatuation, please
let us breathe, huffing and puffing, a true hound—so forgiven, so sickening,
washed like rinsed chitlins; back at it, heading north, rolling at high pace. So
glad you get it, such visitation, letting go filled with rage and sweaty
regret.
