I left my mind in the chair. I gave soul, spirit, just
let time court wisdom. I had her gyration in me, another’s restraint aside me,
another’s intrusive sneakiness. I’ve seas
of Doja Cat, looking at dance, choreography—the fields
have pictures, I wake up early to find my brains—and nobody held me in
contempt. The future is
bleeding, the Russians are lethal, Africa has bad ass
women. Malaysia is Asia’s queen, Rome is the fantasy, fiending is the juice; to
see an exotic fire, midair decorated, dressed
and dying—trying to get out of skin; back to Kenya, a
man doing all he can, Jerusalem in his veins—like lions, like Judah, like
coming back to life. I was doing ritual with
Levi. I was courting women for Benjamin. I fraternized
with the Jebusites. I was taken by sin, sin city, roaming Asia Minor—the battle
of the snake, her body slithering, her belly
intoxication; a dance with the devil, a conversation
with Satan, a promise towards illumination. So abstruse to fathom. Her ecstasy
my dreams. Never to have felt such
intensity. The house of terrors. The haunt in
excellence. The hound of the barricade. Leaping like frogs. So down south. So
electrified. The deserts remind of the
fullness—an empty carcass, a vision in a picture, a
thought to have adored the matrimony of the stars. So deep the acumen, so rich
and clean the soil, so wet and
devastating the womb. A soul in his phantasms, the
vulgarity of being human, the exploits of the bad ass woman in Austria. A shot
of blood, a smelly drug,
intoxicated for eight hours. 1/3 of the passion, 1
dream of the tension, such muscles make for romance destruction. To have died
inside. To have yielding in
screams. To become too patient to feel normal. Tragic
attenuation. The tragic eyes. Such radiant calves. My flying words, caught in a
moment, wonder what in essence
was said. To need, want, in that second, beyond
capacity, beyond moral, to live and die. Blighted by beauty, believed as
insane, trying to deal with new emotions; the
confidence of the caveman, the casual addiction to one
woman, the fair grace in aging politely; to debunk age, to add to adrenaline,
so terrific, so much a travesty,
spacing in scandals. Demystify me; devastate me;
promise some impossible, unbelievable utterance; make for pain, make for
laughing, passion, languid words, a
languishing body. If we knew the capacity of the
craving inside the cavity along a route inside. To have adored in precious
wilderness; to have desired dangerous, so
alone atop a mountain, the drug now without a scent.
In becoming satire, an oxymoron, so ugly it’s downright gorgeous—the frame as
it shatters, the fragments fleeing, the flying
of the moment, the menstrual freshly rinsed:
Bathsheba, The Eastern Soul, or some obscure and solicited Resonance; over an
embittered spirit, to soothe a lesion, the
wound winded by gusts of friendliness. I left my body
at some message. I found my mind in a furniture chair. So amazed by a bad ass
human. So drained by my emotions. I turn
left, figuring I’m walking right, to sense leaping
into a whirlpool. The drink was the drum in the Dramamine; gaining balance, a
grim reality, so raw, so real, much fragrance
and so fragile. Those facile moments, hoping upon a
sense of realness, made in soul, destroyed as a human, so much hell for a
saint—so little respect when lusts burst
forth. The furor of the compassion, the passion of the
creek, the explosion of the teenager; those years in me, those regrettable
reasons to reframe. So many
footprints. Just searching for my love. I located a
room. I’m afraid to knock. I walk in. the room is empty. I hear a voice. It
sounds familiar. “Let the words carry the sentence.”
